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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454116">Stress Pelican</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin'>Besin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fancy Colored Holes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kingdom Hearts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger Disorders, Assimilation, Boundary Discussions, Casual Drug Use, Childhood Trauma, Excessive Swearing, Excessive use of nicknames, F/F, First Person Mental Illness, Gender Non-conforming Characters, Heavy Medications, Judaism, Less than canon typical violence, Mental Illness, Mentions of Psych Wards, Mentions of Stalking, Microaggressions, Minor Character Death, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Characters, Queer Themes, Questioning sexual identity, Rape/Non-con Elements, Realistic Character Names, Realistic Life Events, Recovery from trauma, Rediscovery of Culture, Reference to Eating Disorders, References to Age Gaps, Romance, Substance Abuse, Trans Characters, Trans Xion, Unreliable Narrator, You can take Japanese Albino Riku from my Cold Dead Hands, autistic characters, catcalling, discussions of racism, punk rock band au, trans sora</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:41:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>83,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Some people should come with a warning label.<br/>I am one of them.</i><br/>Aqua Toyoguchi is ready to take names and kick ass. Too bad all that's gonna happen is she’s gonna go through a nasty breakup, lose interest in her band, and actively sabotage her own life until reality gives her a vibe check. Things couldn’t be better, and then things couldn’t get worse.<br/>And then…<br/>Then she meets Naminé.<br/>AKA: The author wanted to write a 10k Doppelgänger AU of Leon running into a bunch of the versions of Sora around Radiant Garden and things got Messy.<br/>First five chapters written for the KH Rogue Nebula. Please, join me in this rarepair hell.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aqua/Naminé (Kingdom Hearts)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fancy Colored Holes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue & Chapter 1: Warning Label | Almost Toast</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>About The Age Gap Tag: The age gaps that I tagged for are 33/23 (the unhealthy one) and 34/29 (the healthy one.) I left the tags as they are without clarification to keep certain people from interacting with this story. I hope you all understand.</p>
<p><b>IMPORTANT NOTE.</b><br/>This story is told through <b><i>unreliable narration</i></b>. Every interaction will be flavored through Aqua’s point of view. There are things that will be lies. There are things that will be inaccurate. There are things that will be abusive and not called out, some of which perpetrated and excused directly by the main character herself. There are a lot of things happening behind the scenes. Bad decisions will be made. Sometimes those decisions will be punished. Sometimes those decisions will be rewarded. Sometimes life is like that. With this in mind, please read this piece critically and second-guess the main character’s decisions, motivations, and the eventual outcomes.<br/>Although the answer, in the end, is that there is no real answer. Such is life.<br/>As you read the installments, please be open to interpreting other points of views and emotions, and feel free to discuss them in the comments. (You are also encouraged to point out typos! Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me about the typos.) If you ask a question that could be spoilery, I’ll just scream with joy and dodge the question. Possibly with excessive emoji use.<br/>Finally… I hope this story helps some of you.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Thanks to Arnaud and Cap for editing, Sheik for general info, Aphrodite Slaps for cultural references, and everyone in the Rogue Nebula chat for putting up with my word vomit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em><a href="https://besinishere.tumblr.com/post/190219584160/art-for-my-upcoming-fic-stress-pelican">Stress Pelican Art</a> by <a href="http://mintycolors.tumblr.com/">Mintycolors on Tumblr</a></em>
</p><hr/>
<p>Some people should come with a warning label.</p>
<p>I am one of them.</p>
<p>Although, in a way, I did.</p>
<p>My parents had me late. They’d struggled for years with conception; from fertilization to a conga line of miscarriages that left my mother not-entirely-metaphorically throat-punching death on more than one occasion. Adoptions were a dead end. Between financial requirements, housing regulations, and straight up discrimination, my parents were denied by twelve agencies before eventually resigning themselves to childlessness. They were either not rich enough, not poor enough, not white enough, or not Christian enough to make it through whatever vetting process was employed by these agencies. They considered the foster care system — especially the Foster and Adopt programs — but wanted a family member for life, not someone the state could take away at any time <em>after</em> they had gotten attached.</p>
<p>Especially considering their track record with adoption.</p>
<p>Then <em>I</em> happened.</p>
<p>They panicked. They were in their forties. They didn’t have the energy to keep up with a baby, let alone a teenager when the time came. They hadn’t planned for a child this late in their lives. Everyone told them it was too late; even the doctors. So they talked about it. They argued about it. They slept on the couch about it. They made up about it.</p>
<p>They kept me.</p>
<p>Seven months and four days into the harrowing endeavor that was pregnancy, Alte Toyoguchi slipped in the shower, fractured her left arm, and went into labor. The contractions were close together, and the attending physicians had to temporarily wrap her arm to prevent the damage from getting worse while my father Yuuto screamed breathing techniques because mom had taken out her hearing aids for her shower. At 11:43PM on the tenth of December I was born, weighing a grand total of four and a half pounds and sending my mother into a fit of hysterics.</p>
<p>She named me “Aqua” while high on pain medication.</p>
<p>I was an active child, I was told. I wanted to talk to everyone. I wanted to know everyone… and then I turned four. Pre-school was okay, in a sense. I don’t remember anything particularly bad or good. My parents told me I would refuse to go every day. They told me they should have taken me at my word that the kids were mean and I felt like everyone knew something I didn’t. Kindergarten, it turned out, was even worse. After a long string of offenses some girls in my class strung my backpack up from a tree and I broke my wrist trying to get it. It was decided that homeschooling would be the safest option for me. Just one problem: Neither of my parents could afford to stay home to teach me.</p>
<p>Enter the Moreno Diaz family.</p>
<p>Jadzia and Edith Moreno Diaz lived two blocks away. They had a son named Eduardo — I would later come to call him “Terra,” but back then he was “Eduardo” — who had been expelled from four schools at the age of seven for fighting. They homeschooled him, so my parents approached them for a second opinion. It apparently went well; especially considering my mother and Edith’s views on assimilation were so similar. After less than an hour of negotiations it was decided that in exchange for my parents paying for Eduardo to take karate lessons — in the hope that it would teach him to control his temper a bit — Edith would homeschool me alongside Eduardo.</p>
<p>From then on, my days were filled with Eduardo.</p>
<p>Eduardo could never sit still.</p>
<p>Eduardo liked bugs and throwing dirt. Eduardo liked climbing trees. Eduardo liked Transformers and stories about his mom growing up on her tribe’s reservation — stories only told behind a third glass of wine as the sun went down on summer nights. On those nights the wind whistled through the apple trees they had planted in their backyard — five evenly spaced apart; just enough to fall under the definition of an orchard. One had been planted on a hill and grew out and then up at a 45° angle. Eduardo and I spent a lot of time on that tree, pretending to be on a space station. Eduardo liked math and science and space; he wanted to be a mechanic working for NASA.</p>
<p>But more importantly, near the orchard, Eduardo kept up a small beehive his mother had gotten him years before, and was slowly growing. He liked bees. Liked caring for them. He was always so calm around them, and so were the bees. The first time he showed me his “no gear” trick I was scared. “They know me. They won’t sting unless they have to,” he said, and walked right up to the hive in a tank top and shorts.</p>
<p>I will never forget how he walked right up to the hive and started removing parts, the bees flying around him and crawling all over his arms. He moved parts of the hive. Talked to them. Then, a good few minutes later, he walked back towards me with a grin and not a single sting on him.</p>
<p>For a boy so calm, it has hard to believe he’d been repeatedly expelled for fighting But his parents hoped that Karate lessons would help.</p>
<p>Eduardo did <em>not</em> like Karate.</p>
<p>Eduardo liked sneaking pastels out of the basement freezer — these mushy plantain-meat things from his father’s home island they made every year at Christmas as a family — and failing to eat them after attempting to microwave them while his mother was asleep, insisting he was going to get the time right some day.</p>
<p>Eduardo was a normal boy. Eduardo was sweet and always gave me the last strawberry as long as he got the last piece of honeydew. Eduardo played jump-rope with me, one side tied to the garage door. Sometimes we would go all the way to a hundred, and he never lost patience. Eduardo was considerate and sweet to me when everyone else teased me for the shape of my eyes and called me names I would later learn were slurs.</p>
<p>And sometimes Eduardo got angry.</p>
<p>He would be fine one second, but if someone said he was a scardy cat, or they pushed him, or — God forbid — they picked on me in front of him, he would go off. He would kick and scream. He’d punch walls. He’d break tables. Suddenly this little boy had within him Herculean strength that outstripped everyone his age. He would say things he knew would hurt. He would call people names. He would scream over and over again that he hated his parents and the neighbors and the little sister his parents had on the way.</p>
<p>But Eduardo didn’t take responsibility for his anger. He said it was the other party’s fault the tables broke. Their fault the walls had holes. That he had nothing to do with it.</p>
<p>His family called them tantrums until one day he broke his arm throwing himself into the car door at full speed, screaming. When Eduardo came down a few minutes later he panicked. He didn’t remember what happened. Edith told him, but he didn't believe her so I told him. He believed me. That was when it all started — the doctors; the medications.</p>
<p>The therapist called it “Blind Rage,” or sometimes “Berserker Syndrome.” They couldn’t give him an official diagnosis, however, because it was considered not mainstream enough to be covered by any policies, so they labeled him as DDNOS — “Dissociative Disorder Not Otherwise Specified” — to allow their insurance to cover his treatment.</p>
<p>After the diagnosis — after breaking his arm — he listened to his parents, realizing they weren’t “total liars.” His world was shaken. He’d been convinced he was surrounded by people who actively blamed him for everything that went wrong, but instead he just… got angry and <em>forgot</em>. This new, quiet, scared Eduardo was our reality until until we met Skylar. Then, as they tend to do, things changed.</p>
<p>Skylar came into the picture when I was six or so. He was considered a “gifted child” and could read, write, and do math equations from the age of two. His parents went to the same church as Eduardo’s, and came to Jadzia to teach their son Spanish. They didn’t seem to understand or care that Trabian Spanish was different from Balamb Spanish, and were willing to pay. We all ended up learning from Jadzia together. Skylar wanted to be everything: an astronaut; a firefighter; a superhero. He wanted to save the world, but he was four and a half and didn’t know how, so he asked for knowledge. He didn’t want toys. He didn’t want candy.</p>
<p>So in the age before comprehensive internet, his parents gave him knowledge when they could afford it.</p>
<p>Skylar and Eduardo got along better than anyone could have expected, and sometimes I felt like I was losing my place. At least, I felt like that until Skylar started carrying around a latin dictionary so he could “start learning science.” Until the day he sat us all down and bestowed nicknames upon himself and Eduardo. “You don’t get one because you’re the Alpha, like wolves, which is why our nicknames match your name,” he told me, chin high. “You’re Aqua, which means water. Skylar starts with ‘sky,’ so I’m ‘Ventus,’ a wind spirit. Eduardo, you get to be earth, because Eduardo means ‘protector of the land.’ That makes you ‘Terra.’”</p>
<p>“That’s weird,” Terra said. Then, after a second, he added, “Mom will hate it. Let’s do it.”</p>
<p>His mother hated it beyond words.</p>
<p>This became our new normal. Terra and I were homeschooled by his mother, Ventus joined us in the afternoon for Spanish lessons with Terra’s father. Catholic mass was on Sunday. I occasionally went, despite being Jewish. (Not that my mother seemed keen on people knowing this.) We settled into our lives, three peas in a pod.</p>
<p>Then Terra had a growth spurt that had him at five-foot-four at the age of ten. From there things… It…</p>
<p>It all broke down.</p>
<p>Terra would have an episode. No one could stop him, and a lot of damage would get done. He would be upset for days every time it happened. He’d get more depressed. From there he’d have another episode. It became a vicious cycle that consumed time, money, and patience.</p>
<p>After a few months of this I caught Terra cutting his left leg with a razor blade in the backyard. “I need to be punished. ‘Rents won’t do it,” he’d said, voice quiet and scared.</p>
<p>I told his mom.</p>
<p>A week later Terra was placed in a hospital in the city.</p>
<p>He was ten. I was almost eight. Ventus had just turned seven.</p>
<p>I don’t remember much of my childhood beyond that. I remember key events, but for the most part it’s a blur.</p>
<p>At nine I was put back in public school with a high five and a prayer. At ten I was diagnosed with Autism. At eleven I punched a girl on the playground for calling me a dyke. At twelve I found out I was, in fact, a dyke. At thirteen I pierced my ears and dyed my hair pink, much to my parents’ despair. At fourteen…</p>
<p>At fourteen, I started high school.</p>
<p>At fourteen, my parents enrolled me in self-defense courses after some boys jumped me behind the school and stuffed me in a trash can.</p>
<p>At fourteen, Terra came back.</p>
<p>He was the same, but he wasn’t. He was quiet. Slow. <em>Tall</em>. He was sixteen years old, five-foot-ten, and didn’t talk like he used to. Didn’t <em>smile</em> like he used to. He was on tranquilizers so heavy that he was too tired to get angry. Or play games. Or read books.</p>
<p>Or get out of bed.</p>
<p>Or <em>function</em>.</p>
<p>But during the few that he could he was able to hang out with Ventus and me, and we would get on like we used to. They were my best friends.</p>
<p>Shortly after I turned fifteen Terra was weaned off his meds and got it into his head that he should start a band. True to form, Ventus pulled out a dictionary and we picked some random words for a name.</p>
<p>The name was “Fancy Colored Holes.”</p><hr/>
<p>
  <strong>Chapter One: Almost Toast</strong>
</p>
<p><em>My friends tend to call me a stress pelican<br/>
</em> <em>Nothing to do with eating fish out of a can<br/>
</em> <em>It’s just ‘cause I carry my stress in my mouth<br/>
</em> <em>And after a while it all flies out</em></p>
<p><em>“Stress Pelican” Verse Two<br/>
</em> <em>Written and Performed by Fancy Colored Holes</em></p><hr/>
<p>
  <strong>Thursday, August 5th</strong>
</p>
<p>Things are good and I don’t trust it.</p>
<p>We’re backstage at Quin’s Room. The faux-leather seats are creaking against my actual-leather jacket, and Lea is chatting with Terra about his construction gig. He’s motioning with his hands, and Terra is laughing along as he jokes about something one of his coworkers did. Ventus is in town for one of his bi-yearly visits, draped over the back of the couch upside-down while trying to throw small bouncy rubber balls into shot glasses while Leon moves them around and offers him sips from a bottle of flat beer through a straw.</p>
<p>My hands are gripping my phone, but I’m not doing anything special. I’m hopping between message threads, mind off what we’re about to do. It’s a gig. I’m not anxious. I’m not excited. I’m not anything.</p>
<p>I don’t want to be here.</p>
<p>But things are good. I should want to be here, right? I should be happy.</p>
<p>But I’m not.</p>
<p>Usually we have three or four venues that we frequent within a fifty mile radius, seeing as Leon’s corn allergy makes anywhere with a popcorn machine or nachos out of the running. None of the remaining places are nice. I’m sure only a handful won’t get shut down by the health inspector in the next year. Today, though, we’re opening for this big punk band from the city who’s doing a “hometown” tour with a bunch of different groups from the area, going to the smaller towns that make up the sprawling metro area.</p>
<p>We got slotted for a Thursday show. We’re not very popular. They don’t expect a large turnout. This is a (relatively) small town and we have an even smaller crowd. The lights are too bright, the entire place smells like piss, Terra was sneezing up a storm from all the weed before he popped an allergy pill, and I don’t want to do this.</p>
<p>A staff member comes back and tells us everything’s been set up, so I pull out the box with masks and sunglasses and we play this cheap, silly game of “protecting our identities” in the hope that what few groupies we have won’t be able to recognize Terra.</p>
<p>We go on stage in an order — Leon on drums, Terra on guitar, Lea on bass, and then me. It’s an old habit; something left over from the first, <em>extremely</em> pushy vocalist that we never bothered to change because it had become tradition.</p>
<p>I don’t want to be here.</p>
<p>But here I am; onstage, adjusting the height of the venue’s mic. Leon is double-checking the drum setup and I’m staring down an audience of thirty people who likely have no idea who we are. The lights are bright. The entire stage is an oven. I lean into the mic. It’s cold, but my hands aren’t much warmer, and my breath sends a wash of noise over the crowd. “Are you all prepared?” I usually shout it, but I don’t have the balls tonight. It’s a call for our regulars, who I’m absolutely certain are not here.</p>
<p>No one replies.</p>
<p>We’re on our own.</p>
<p>I pull away from the mic, glancing back at Terra, whose face is pointed to his guitar. Lea is much the same, leaning against an arm and brushing back his crazy red hair with a lazy hand.</p>
<p>It’s not my problem if he combs out the spikes before we even get started.</p>
<p>Leaning into the mic, I say, “We’re Fancy Colored Holes, and this is ‘Sell Your Time.’” I glance back at Leon. He’s got his old leather jacket on tonight, patched to hell and barely holding on. His hair is brushed to the side and is frankly a big greasy mess. He looks like shit. I nod and he seems confused. He must be. Usually I warm up the crowd. Usually I chat with them and have a conversation before we get started… but I don’t feel it, today.</p>
<p>I don’t really feel anything.</p>
<p>Drums start up, then guitar, and as Lea kicks up on the bass I sing into the mic, “As a child I was told I was free, but every hour had been planned for me.” Taking the stand in hand, I grab the mic with my left, pulling it close in an old, practiced imitation of bravado. “Now I’m an adult with obligations to myself, friends, and organizations.”</p>
<p>There’s a little blot of silver-white in the crowd, and maybe I can get through this without wanting to puke. They made it. They’re <em>watching</em>. Everything’s going to be fine.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah; everything’s on the line,” I call, growing louder. “Now the world’s ending, so let’s sell. Your. Time!”</p>
<p>No one reacts.</p>
<p>Just ignore the audience. This is practice.</p>
<p>This is so…</p>
<p><em>Annoying</em>.</p><hr/>
<p>Our set comes to an end and I’m ready to leave. The main band takes the stage and I can hear the audience cheering the way they hadn’t cheered for us.</p>
<p>Makes sense. They weren’t here to see us.</p>
<p>The back room is a mess with a faux-leather couch, a crumbling table, and more graffiti than there logically needs to be for a waiting room. It also smells like disinfectant (because of yours truly) and one of those cheap pine car fresheners. As we slip the drums in their carriers, Leon working overtime and getting things together faster than the rest of us combined, Terra leans over and gently sings, “Oh, come and see the opening band.” He’s a few inches taller than me, and even with him bending over his shoulder sits even with and brushes mine. A hulk of a man with a modest barrel of a chest, sun-lightened hair styled up in a fauxhawk, and more blue in his eyes than his face knows what to do with. His voice cracks. He’s not a singer. Never was, and never will be.</p>
<p>I snort.</p>
<p>“Now that you’ve got your tickets and beverages in hand,” he continues, voice low. “They look so tired, so uninspired; guitars are second hand,” he sings, voice cracking on the high notes. He pauses to clear his throat.</p>
<p>“You okay there, champ?” I ask, nudging him with my elbow.</p>
<p>“‘Cause no one likes an opening band,” he finishes faux-grandly.</p>
<p>I jam my elbow towards his stomach, but he just clenches and laughs. “Suck a dick.”</p>
<p>“Dick? Where?” He makes a show of looking around, cupping his hand over his sunglasses.</p>
<p>“Look in a mirror. That’s should do well enough.”</p>
<p>“Stop messing around and put the drums away,” Leon says as he leans down to snatch the bass drum from Lea, who had been fiddling with the zipper for a solid five minutes.</p>
<p>Jumping to his feet, all skinny awkward limbs and pale skin, Lea runs a wiry hand through messy red hair as sweat peels his hairspray out layer by layer. “Hey, the zipper’s stuck on that. I wasn’t just messing around.”</p>
<p>Leon snorts as he turns, looking much more intimidating than he should when he’s staring down someone a literal foot taller than him. “Really? ‘Cause it looked like your were daydreaming about your girlfriend again. What happened to your constant bragging that getting zippers unsnagged was your specialty?”</p>
<p>“Hey, man, it’s not my fault I’m better getting them down than up.”</p>
<p>“Probably ‘cause they don’t stick around long enough for you to get a go at dressing them.”</p>
<p>“That wasn’t even good, but you’re asking for a fight, asshole.”</p>
<p>
  <span>Leon stares at him for a solid five seconds following this, eyes refusing to move from Lea’s face as his mouth shifts through increasingly uncomfortable expressions, and I need popcorn for this. Lea is six-foot-six in a leather jacket that stops just under his midriff and looks like a Barbie doll in reasonably proportioned clothes, and Leon is five-foot-six with greasy brown hair, and for all he’s kind of average body-wise, his arms are absolutely jacked. It wouldn’t even be a competition; Leon could punch Lea into a pile of toothpicks, and Lea would probably snap his wrist trying to get a hit in.</span>
</p>
<p>Comedy.</p>
<p>As Leon turns on his heel and out the doors to the alley, he calls behind him, “Don’t waste time like that. All you need to do is get a pair of pliers and get the job done.”</p>
<p>Lea follows him out of the building, voice echoing into the room. “Where am I going to find pliers?”</p>
<p>“There’s literally a toolbox in the back of the van. Right there. Look at it. It’s red.”</p>
<p>Terra snorts. “We need popcorn for these guys.”</p>
<p>“I was just thinking that,” I agree quietly, turning back to the drums. Only the stand is left, now. Reaching for it, I start pulling the sections apart when my back pocket begins to buzz. Tugging out my phone, I unlock it with my fingerprint, then pull down the alerts menu. I’ve got a text from Paine. Clicking on it, I wait for the message app to load.</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>
You’ve got some nerve looking that hot.</em>
</p>
<p>That’s… direct.</p>
<p>This is what I get for dating a twenty-three year old, I guess.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>
Nerve, huh?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>
:Peach Emoji: :Peach Emoji: :Peach Emoji: :Peach Emoji: :Peach Emoji: :Peach Emoji: :Eggplant Emoji:</em>
</p>
<p>Really? Is this what passes for romance these days? It’s so… Crass. Indelicate. I mean, it might work for some people, but personally I think it’s kind of gross.</p>
<p>Maybe I’m getting old.</p>
<p>But thirty-three isn’t that old.</p>
<p>I put my phone away, but seconds later it buzzes again. Tugging it out, I unlock it and-</p>
<p><em>Paine Yeo:</em><br/>
Watch this alone.<br/>
[Paine has uploaded a video. Click to view.]</p>
<p>Alone? The other band is literally on right now. What are they doing? “I’ll be just a sec,” I say, setting the drum I’d been working on on the floor and rising to my feet.</p>
<p>“Oh come on!” Lea groans. “Pull your weight!”</p>
<p>“She was working faster than you were,” Terra points out dryly.</p>
<p>“How about you eat my entire ass?”</p>
<p>“Are you offer-”</p>
<p>Closing the bathroom door, I pull some earbuds out of my front right jacket pocket and pop them in. Taking a seat on the toilet, I click on the video.</p>
<p>That’s the roof of Paine’s car and-</p>
<p>Oh shit.</p>
<p>
  <span>Their breasts are propped up in a padded bra, lacy edges uneven against their chest as their arm crosses and disappears down the bottom of the camera. Lips part in a gentle moan. “Shit,” they whisper. “You’re pretty hot on stage. Care to join me?” The camera shifts, and the video turns to a blanket, then inches above it. “I’m in the alley just off seventh and broadway.”</span>
</p>
<p>Oh <em>shit</em>. That’s… a lot of information all at once.</p>
<p>Paine is in a car waiting for me a few blocks away, scantily clad and apparently down to fuck. Our part of the gig is over. We’re nearly packed. I’m…</p>
<p>I’m not in the mood, not into public sex, and not really up for a quickie in the back of a car.</p>
<p>But I can’t just <em>not reply</em>.</p>
<p>Locking my phone, I shove it in my pocket and turn to the grody mirror to check myself. My hair is a faded blue mess. The leave-in-color-conditioner I use hasn’t been touched in a while, and the ends are starting to curl from humidity, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now without conditioner and a hair straightener. Running my fingers through what I can, I turn my attention to what little makeup I’ve bothered with for this show. A touch of eyeliner. Some chapstick. I grab a paper towel, intending to wipe it off with some soap, but think better of it. Paine likes it. Putting the towel back, I adjust my bra, faux-corset, and shorts, then sprint out of the bathroom. Snatching my sling-backpack up from where I had been sitting, I make my way toward the back door.</p>
<p>“Hey, hey, what’s up?” Terra looks over from where he’s handing off the last of the drums, turning to me with a baffled expression. “What’s the rush?”</p>
<p>“Booty call,” I throw over my shoulder, sprinting through the back door and out into the street. The night air is warm; August at its best. I consider taking off my leather jacket as the heat hits like a full-body slap, a wall of relief against my constantly-cold body.</p>
<p>The ground is brick with- No. No, eyes up. Gotta keep my eyes up. Where’s seventh and Broadway? I’m on Fourth and Bridge Street right now, so it should be about three blocks away. Thank you, grid system.</p>
<p>I make it to seventh before some guy shouts something. I don’t hear it at first, too dead-set on street signs and alleys, until he calls out again.</p>
<p>There’s a whistle.</p>
<p>I stop.</p>
<p>For a fraction of a second I am eleven. A man is whistling at me on the street. I feel gross. I feel ashamed. My breasts came in early and I don’t want to be the kind of girl people whistled at.</p>
<p>For a fraction of a second I am thirteen. A man is yelling at me from a passing car, telling me to suck his dick. The imagery frightens me. I am gay and scared and in the closet. I can’t imagine ever having the kind of bravery to lean out of a car and shout sex acts at girls I thought were attractive.</p>
<p>For a fraction of a second I am fifteen. A man who reeks of alcohol grabs my wrist as I’m coming back from a concert and pulls me in an alley. I panic and throw him into a dumpster.</p>
<p>My heart is racing.</p>
<p>I had it easy.</p>
<p>I was <em>lucky</em>.</p>
<p>I turn.</p>
<p>This particular whistler is painfully average. He’s tall with an athletic build, neat clothes, and is attractive in that 1970’s California Model way. He’s got pale skin and brown hair in a crew cut. (I don’t want to look at his eyes. I don’t ever want to look at eyes.) He could be a Hipster. He’s got suspenders and a plaid shirt and skinny jeans that hug shapely calves. He’s the kind of guy newspapers would show family photos of if he killed someone. If he raped someone, people in the comment section would say the victim should have enjoyed it.</p>
<p>“Can you not?” I snap, then turn back to the street signs. I’ve got better things to do.</p>
<p>There’s a scoff. A snort. A, “Just accept the compliment, bitch,” that makes my chest freeze.</p>
<p>Air is difficult, sometimes.</p>
<p>My hands begin to shake as my entire body vibrates. I reach for my front with both hands, slipping them into the smaller than usual pockets of my summer jacket. Against my right-hand fingers I feel the cool metal of my point-and-shoot camera. My mouth moves out of habit, and the words physically hurt as my lungs ache with them. “Do you even think before threatening people?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t threaten you.”</p>
<p>“You did,” I reply, voice deceptively even. Maybe I look calm. Maybe I look cool. Maybe if I look collected he might actually listen to what I say. “You just see it as a compliment, so when someone doesn’t react well you think the fault lies with them and you move on. So let me be clear; when you whistle at someone on the street, especially late at night with no witnesses, we have to worry about you following us to our cars and killing us.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to <em>fucking kill you, Jesus Christ</em>.”</p>
<p>Turning, I look at where the whistler is leaned up against his car, hands shoved in deep pockets and jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t look like the type who’d throw a punch. Then again, they never do. “How do I know that?”</p>
<p>The whistler doesn’t reply.</p>
<p>I let go of the camera. I walk away. I turn the corner. There’s an alley off to the right, and I peer in to find a car idling. The front seat is empty, and a blanket is stretched over the front two seats, blocking off view to the back. Approaching the car, I knock on the back tinted window. It rolls down a touch and red eyes peer out at me — they’re wearing their contacts, it seems.</p>
<p>“Password,” they demand.</p>
<p>I think of a lot of things to say in that moment. That I don’t think this is a good idea. That the alley isn’t a good place for this. That I want to go back to the others and get pizza. But maybe I’m wrong and they don’t want to have sex. Maybe they just want to make out. Maybe I’m reading too far into this. “Suck a dick,” I fire back instead.</p>
<p>“Fair enough.”</p>
<p>The door pops open and I climb in. I immediately reach for my jacket and backpack, slipping them off.</p>
<p>A hand finds the inside of my right thigh. “Hey, <em>lover</em>,” Paine whispers, leaning in. They’ve got makeup on: lipstick, eyeliner, and enough concealer and foundation to make me nauseous.</p>
<p>That’s got to be one major downside to being a lesbian; I can smell makeup. <em>Man</em> is it gross. It’s sickening, like licking moist flour. Apparently other people can’t smell it. Maybe it’s the autism thing: the heightened sense of smell; overstimulation threshold; sensitivity to powders and scents and textures. It could even be my allergies. Either way, it’s <em>gross</em>.</p>
<p>They kiss me and I try to push the nausea back. I’ll get used to it after a moment. Maybe someday I might not even notice it. Their lipstick smears against my lips, and I can taste it on my breath as they pull away. It tastes stale, like holding shredded crayon in your mouth. But it’s just something I’ve got to deal with.</p>
<p>Their hands go to my breasts, squeezing them gently, admiring the shape before slipping down, sliding over my faux-corset-</p>
<p>Oh. They actually want to have sex, don’t they?</p>
<p>Their hands go for my shorts, hooking under the front button and tugging me forward. Kissing down my chest, they undo the front and reach under my ass, pulling the fabric over my thighs and off my legs, along with my underwear. Maybe it’s the age difference, but they seem far too eager as they tug me into place, settling in front of my hips and grinning wide, all teeth.</p>
<p>Maybe I’m getting old, but I don’t want to do this in public.</p>
<p>But I don’t want to start an argument so I move with their hands, anyways.</p>
<p>Paine pauses for a second, looking up at me, heavily dyed gray hair flopping over their face and hanging in front of their red-contacted eyes. Their roots are starting to show, a black shadow against their scalp. They’re all-too-skinny, muscle standing out against pale skin. They give me one last smile before bending down to kiss the patch of hair just above my vagina, nuzzling in to press a kiss to the tattoo that sits just under the skin; a bright red “DYKE.”</p>
<p>They move lower. My legs spread further in something that might look like anticipation, hands falling to muscled shoulders.</p>
<p>I don’t want to do this.</p>
<p>Grey hair shifts as they look up at me. “Your hands are really cold.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” I reply, moving them to the car seat and the Oh Shit handle at my back, leg sinking into the chunk taken out of the seat. The car smells vaguely of old fabric and gas. It’s easily as old as I am.</p>
<p>Leaning back down, Paine’s tongue-</p>
<p>Shit, I forget sometimes how much they know what they’re doing.</p>
<p>It starts as soothing; the gentle moist touch of muscle against my clit. Within seconds they’ve flattened their tongue against me and give me short, rough licks that throw my spine into an arch.</p>
<p>It’s over all too soon, and then they’re pulling away, wiping their mouth on the sleeve of a hoodie on the floor, then reaching into a bag to produce a long, purple rabbit vibrator. “My turn.”</p>
<p>They planned this.</p>
<p>I’m not sure how I feel about that. About Paine intentionally bringing sex toys to fuck after a show. About Paine possibly planning to call me out. Was this all staged? Did Paine really think I was attractive on stage or did they just want to get me to fuck them in their car?</p>
<p>Keeping my reservations to myself, I reach for the vibrator and take it in hand. “Do you have lube?” I ask.</p>
<p>“Don’t need it for this. You already got me wet enough,” is the glib reply as they sink down in the seat. Their legs spread, and they reach down to move their underwear to the side. It matches their bra, with a dark floral print and black lace that stands stark against pale skin and the reddish folds they reveal to me freely.</p>
<p>Did I get them wet enough or did they just finger themselves long enough before I got here to not need it?</p>
<p>Adjusting my grip on the rabbit, I lean forward and press the tip against them. I ease it back and forth as I press kisses to a collarbone that stands stark out of a build just thin enough to get me worried. Slowly, I push it in, rotating it gently to get it wet.</p>
<p>Their hips lift into the sensation, seeking more. Seeking stimulation. Their back arches against the seat, fingers finding their way into my hair. “C’mon,” they whisper. “Go ahead and fuck me.”</p>
<p>Pushing the last of the rabbit in, I ease the front against their clitoris, then jam a thumb into the button on the bottom. It vibrates in my hand.</p>
<p>Paine hums in appreciation. “Yeah, fuck, <em>just</em> like that.”</p>
<p>Angling it up against them, I bend down to press a kiss to what little of their breast pops out of their bra. Their soft gasp shoots down from my ears to my hips, and I find myself moving against the seat.</p>
<p>Somewhere below us my phone starts to vibrate, Terra’s ringtone hanging in the air. “<em>Fight fight you'll never win. Tonight I’ll start again,</em>” the gravelly voice sings as I jab the button on the vibrator, turning it off as I fumble for the phone. “<em>Fight fight, you'll never win.</em>”</p>
<p>Slipping the device out of my discarded shorts, I answer. “Terra, wassup?”</p>
<p>
  <em>“<strong>Wassup</strong>? Where are you?”</em>
</p>
<p>“Just a few blocks away.”</p>
<p>
  <em>“That’s not what I mean.”</em>
</p>
<p>“I told you — Paine called me out. Then I ran into some asshole on the way here.”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Jesus <strong>fuck</strong>. Tell us next time, okay? It’s not like you to just grab your shit and book it. We’re leaving like… right now. Are you joining us or not?”</em>
</p>
<p>“Shit. Sorry. Just a sec.” Covering my phone mic, I glance at Paine. “Mind if I catch a ride home?”</p>
<p>Paine does <em>not</em> look happy. They’ve got the rabbit hanging out of their panties, a scowl firm on faded red lips, and a black eyebrow arched dramatically. “You can get more than that as soon as you hang up your phone.”</p>
<p>Uncovering the mic, I say, “I’m good to get home on my own.”</p>
<p><em>“That’s not the point. We were supposed to go out to pizza after, remember? You were going to introduce us to Paine. Pizza? Board games? Any of this ringing a bell?”</em> Terra asks. For all that his words are biting, he’s his usual calm self. He just sounds tired.</p>
<p>“Shit.”</p>
<p>“What?” Paine leans forward on their elbows, watching me.</p>
<p>Covering the mic, I turn my head to look at them. “We were going to take you out after the show; pizza and board games. We can probably make it if we head back now.” I don’t want to, though. I don’t like going out in public after sex. I don’t even want to finish. I just want to go home and bathe. Scrub my skin until it’s raw. I’d even settle for a shower right now.</p>
<p>Throwing their head back, Paine breathes a long, put-upon groan. “Do we have to? I wanted you all to myself tonight. You should have told me you guys wanted to go out.”</p>
<p>Yeah, that… would have been a good idea.</p>
<p>There’s a hum, then they shrug. “Your friend is having a birthday party next week, isn’t he? I could go to that instead.”</p>
<p>I can feel my face pinch at the suggestion.</p>
<p>Paine snorts. “What’s with that face?”</p>
<p><em>“What is it?”</em> Terra asks through the phone.</p>
<p>Uncovering the mic, I say, “They want to go to your birthday next week instead.”</p>
<p>Silence follows my words. There’s the rev of an engine and the thud of something heavy on metal before he speaks. <em>“Are you sure that would be safe?”</em> His voice is soft, like he’s trying to keep Paine from overhearing.</p>
<p>My eyes shift back to them, and I can’t help the part of me that sits deep in my gut whispering just loud enough to be heard.</p>
<p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>This is a bad idea.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t do it.</em>
</p>
<p>“It should be fine,” I say instead. “I can see you two getting along.” Maybe. Under the right circumstances.</p>
<p>There’s a pause. A sigh. The clatter of plastic on plastic and the crashing of drums filters through the connection as music starts up through a tinny stereo on his end. <em>“If you’re sure,”</em> he breathes, air fuzzing up the mic. <em>“I’ll see you later.”</em></p>
<p>“Later,” I agree. Pulling the phone away from my face, I end the call and jam my thumb into the lock button. Turning back to Paine, I fix them with a grin. “You have my undivided attention.”</p>
<p>Red eyes roll dramatically at this. “I should hope so; you’re in the middle of fucking me.”</p>
<p>Fair enough.</p>
<p>Taking hold of the handle of the rabbit, I switch it back on and ease the ears against their clit. I can’t help but glance over the blanket hanging from the front seats, and through the tinted windows around us.</p>
<p>No one’s looking.</p>
<p>“Little higher,” they direct.</p>
<p>Adjusting my hand on the base, I climb back over them and slip my hands in their heavily bleached hair. “You can’t scream here,” I remind them as their mouth falls open and a select few swears tumble out.</p>
<p>Hips rocking against the toy, Paine’s eyes fall shut, dark mascara leaving marks against their cheeks. “As soon as you stop teasing me and fuck me like a good girl, we’ll talk.”</p>
<p>With a laugh that’s a little more forced than I would like to admit, I draw my hand out of their hair. “Then let’s get to the main event, shall we?” I say it like it’s a favor, but I just want this to be over. Rising up onto my knees, I brace a hand against the sagging, discolored ceiling as I waddle back until my feet touch the door. Bending over them, I drop the vibrator onto the floor — they won’t ask for a second round if it’s covered in pine needles — and fix my thumb and pointer finger over their clit. Dragging the pad of my finger up the little bits of skin framing the front, I give them a gentle squeeze.</p>
<p>Lurching beneath me, an aborted scream rips its way out of Paine’s throat before their hand can slap over their smudged red mouth. They groan as I continue, hand falling away for a high hiss accompanying a begged, “Yeah, jack my dick.”</p>
<p>Wait. Do they want me to call it their dick? Or is it just something they’re saying in the moment? Have they been meaning to talk to me about this? I know they’re planning to transition. Maybe this is something we should talk about.</p>
<p>Or maybe I will never understand dirty talk.</p>
<p>Their voice goes higher and higher as I slip another finger in, hooking it around the other side to find the slightly textured skin of their g-spot. Hips stutter against my hands as I move slightly against them. Before long their voice cuts out, then in, then out again. My left palm is smeared with fluid by the time I pull away. As Paine lays against the seat, dead to the world, I wipe my hands on a nearby discarded fast food napkin, using a generous squirt from the travel bottle of hand sanitizer hanging from my bag to properly disinfect from my fingers to my elbows.</p>
<p>After a minute Paine rises from their discolored grave to reach for their clothes. “Thanks, babe.”</p>
<p>“No problem,” I reply. I’m finally getting used to that endearment. It’s not something I would have picked, but Paine is fond of it. Reaching for my own things, I awkwardly pull my outfit on piece by piece.</p>
<p>Paine takes a bit longer, adjusting a number of belts and straps. “So, uh…” they begin awkwardly as they cinch another belt, pausing to clear their throat. “I still don’t understand why it took so long for you to decide to introduce me to your friends.”</p>
<p>“It’s ‘cause Terra-”</p>
<p>“Has an anger disorder, yeah,” they cut in. “Blind something or whatever. You’ve mentioned that, and to be honest I’m not really buying it. There must have been something else going on.”</p>
<p>They’re not wrong.</p>
<p>“So what was it? Money? Jealousy? Band stuff?” They adjust their top before reaching for a well-worn pair of chucks. The laces wag as they’re pulled onto narrow feet. “Are they all your exes or something?”</p>
<p>Sliding further down the seat until I’ve all but slipped into the seam of the door, I take one of Terra’s calming breaths. “My last ex-” last <em>three</em> exes, honestly, “- felt threatened by my relationship with Terra.”</p>
<p>“Why? You guys don’t, like… <em>kiss</em> or anything, do you?” Their nose wrinkles at this before they turn their attention back on their shoes. “He’s like your little brother. I get it. I’m not going to be intimidated by your relationship with your gay little brother, okay? We’re going to be fine.”</p>
<p>Wish I could believe that. It’s not even that I think they’re lying; I just… It’s a knee-jerk reaction, now.</p>
<p>Fastening the final knot on their laces, Paine reaches for the blanket thrown over the seats.</p>
<p>I want to hold them… but I know it won’t go over well.</p>
<p>Before long we’re in the front seats, staring down at the road as they pull out of the alley. What little light that had been in the sky when we first arrived is long gone. Instead there’s just the grayed-out black of a light-polluted night sky, dotted with a few of the brightest stars.</p>
<p>“We probably could have made it, you know,” Paine states as they turn us onto the main street. “Pizza with your friends. It’s not like we were making a night of it.”</p>
<p>That’s funny, considering they said earlier that they wanted me to themselves. “You know I don’t like going out in public after sex.” The smell. The moisture. The sweat. It’s something to do at home, then immediately wash up after. I'm not clean enough. There's too many germs. I don’t need to spread my germs everywhere.</p>
<p>“Right. Your ‘thing.’ Just another routine to follow.”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” I confirm brightly. “And my routines are very important to me.”</p>
<p>Paine sighs. It’s not a calming one. Not a breath of amusement. Their shoulders are flush to the seat; hands tight on the wheel; mouth a thin, severe line. They’re uncomfortable. They’re <em>annoyed</em>.</p>
<p>What did I miss?</p>
<p>The ride home is quiet. As soon as we hit the main street there is nothing I can say. Questions bubble into the back of my head one after the other: How was the show? You didn’t see any cockroaches, right? Did you have fun?</p>
<p>Instead of asking I find myself sitting in the passenger seat, phone open to random pages of wikipedia, reading about dart frogs.</p>
<p>I don’t want to know the answers to the questions I’ve got. If I ask, I might throw up. If I <em>talk</em> I might throw up.</p>
<p>Maybe I’m done with the music scene.</p>
<p>Eventually Paine pulls into my neighborhood, then onto my street… then stops. We’re at the end of the block, just a few houses down from where I live, and they’ve got this… <em>look</em>.</p>
<p>I wait.</p>
<p>After a solid thirty seconds of idling, they shift the car into park and look over at me. “I wanted to ask you something.”</p>
<p>Giving a quick shrug, feeling the leather of my jacket pull at my shoulders, I shift closer to the door to face them full on.</p>
<p>“We’ve been pretty vague about where this relationship is going. I kind of kept expecting you to broach the subject since you’re older, but you haven’t,” they start, and that’s a lot of assumptions right out of the gate. But they’re in their twenties; I can’t expect much. “Maybe it’s because you have less time on your hands, or you had other bad experiences you haven’t talked to me about. Whatever it is, I’d like you to open up about it more. I’d like to spend more time with you, period.” They pause, taking a quick, nervous breath before barreling on with an almost too loud, “Would you like to move in with me?”</p>
<p>It takes a solid ten seconds for the words to sink in. A solid ten seconds too long, apparently, because Paine turns back to the wheel and mutters, “Whatever. I’m just jumping the gun.”</p>
<p>“I’d love to,” I say. But is it the right response? We’ve only been together for six months. Living together is huge. I’ve never lived with someone else before. I’m thirty-three and I still live with my mother. It could just be that I’m scared, though. It’s about time I moved out.</p>
<p>Paine is grinning ear to ear. “I was hoping you’d say that. I already cleaned out half my closet.”</p>
<p>Wow.</p>
<p>Shifting the car back into first, they ease down the block until they can stop in front of my house. “Have a good night,” they say in farewell. “I love you.”</p>
<p>“Love you, too,” I say back. I want to lean in for a kiss, but the chances of getting one are slim, so I don’t. To Paine, kisses are things for the bedroom. Reaching for the door, I push it open and step out of the car. It clicks as I close it, then I head up the walkway.</p>
<p>The pavement is a dull, recently stained white, standing out against the freshly mowed, almost artificially green grass. There are no bushes. No lawn ornaments or flowers. As I make my way up to the front door I take a moment to appreciate that I might not live in a place with a front yard any longer.</p>
<p>Good riddance.</p>
<p>As I reach to unlock the door, a light flickers on through the kitchen window. Turning the key until it clicks, I step inside and glance to the right, watching my mother pull a pan from the collection above the stove. “Hey, mom.”</p>
<p>“You’re up late, baby girl,” she calls over her shoulder. She twirls a saucepan playfully before placing it gently on a coil. “Actually, now that I look at the time, you’re quite early. Did something happen at the show?”</p>
<p>“Sorta. Still processing. Ask me again in a minute.” Grabbing a chair from the kitchen table, I flip it around to mount it backwards. For a moment I watch mom flit about the kitchen with more energy than a woman nearing her eighties should rightly have. “What are you making? Got a plan?”</p>
<p>She hums happily, brushing a white, curling lock out of her face. She hasn’t been wearing her wigs around the house lately. It’s been weird. “Canned yams,” she says slowly, meandering to the next word with a high note as she lights the gas on the stove, face even with the burner. “Maybe I’ll fry some dried dates with strawberry preserves, then pour it over some sweet bread. You want in?”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll pass. That’s a little too much sugar for me. How are you doing tonight?”</p>
<p>“Positively <em>wired</em>. Got a few winks in before I had a dream about the time I went hang-gliding for…” She pauses. “... for an anniversary.”</p>
<p>Resting my chin against the back of the chair, I shift my legs up to settle my shoes on the seat. “And sugar is the answer?”</p>
<p>“A sugar crash, yes.” There’s a pause. A second, maybe two, passes before she speaks in a whisper. “It was good to see your father again.”</p>
<p>Nausea hits my stomach, weighing me down.</p>
<p>She throws me a glance, lips pursing quickly before she turns to the cupboard, pulling out the dates and preserves. “So how was your show? You’re, uh…” She licks her lips. “Your <em>partner</em> was able to make it this time, weren’t they?”</p>
<p>Alte Toyoguchi is not a subtle woman. “You could just call them Paine,” I suggest. Don’t puke. <em>Don’t puke.</em></p>
<p>“No, ‘your Paine’ is even stranger. I’ll get used to ‘partner’ soon enough. It’s just-”</p>
<p>Here we go.</p>
<p>“- partner is such a <em>strong word</em>. That’s a word you use for someone you’ve been with for years, not a handful of months!” she whines, dropping a large spoonful of preserves into the pan. “I looked it up, you know. Got on the computer and everything. Did the ‘Google-Fu,’ as you call it. And you know what? There are a lot of more appropriate words you two could use. Words I think you would prefer. ‘Significant other,’ ‘sweetheart,’ ‘paramour’-”</p>
<p>“That’s a band, mom,” I try to segue. She’s not wrong. She’s not wrong, and I hate that.</p>
<p>“But those are too tender for them, aren’t they?” she continues dryly. “No, it’s got to be ‘partner.’ What’s wrong with ‘datemate?’ That one’s cute <em>and</em> modern! But you don’t want to fight for it because it’s never <em>really</em> serious-”</p>
<p>“Mom-”</p>
<p>“- and you’ve never introduced me to <em>any</em>-”</p>
<p>“We’re moving in together,” I blurt before she can get any further.</p>
<p>She spins on her heel and levels me with a wide grin, pearly dentures on display. “What? Who asked?”</p>
<p>“Just now, in the car,” I answer first. My chin hurts. Lifting it off the chair, I bring my hands together nervously, popping my knuckles. “They asked me to move in with them. I said yes.”</p>
<p>A long silence follows these words.</p>
<p>For lack of anything better to do, I bring my wrists up to my neck and offer her some half-hearted Jazz Hands.</p>
<p>I expect a reaction. I expect melodrama. My mother was born to be a weirdo, and she has enjoyed every second of it.</p>
<p>This is not what I get.</p>
<p>What I get is the fade of a grin from intentionally manic to exhaustion. Eyes shutter as she presses a hand to her chest, shoulders heaving in a long, somehow casual sigh. It’s relief. It’s joy and exhaustion and a little frustration, but mostly it’s relief. “Guess I better stop whining and get used to ‘partner,’ then,” she whispers, then turns back to the stove. She hums a song under her breath; one of those Yiddish ones she doesn’t want me to learn. The ones she sings when she’s happy.</p>
<p>I love her very much.</p>
<p>I cross my arms over the back of the chair and rest my chin atop them, watching her work.</p>
<p>Maybe life can be good.</p>
<p>Maybe I'm worried for nothing.</p>
<p>But as the evening comes to an end and I fall into bed…</p>
<p>Today should feel like a milestone in my life. Those usually feel… <em>different.</em> It’s hard to explain, but sometimes my life <em>feels</em> different. It’s not an emotion or a particular sensation. Instead it’s like the entire planet has a mood, not that <em>that</em> makes any sense. But sometimes…</p>
<p>Sometimes the sun is brighter. Sometimes the air tastes dry, but in a good way. Like fresh toast, but without the bread. It’s like the flavor on your tongue right as you’re about to bite down, with the air around the toast in your mouth, <em>almost</em> toast, and when the air tastes like this I find myself recalling distant memories I didn't realize I still had.</p>
<p>My first girlfriend wore an eyepatch. She painted a pirate symbol on it and joked about booty and drew vaginas on textbooks instead of dicks. We were thirteen and she punched the boys who made fun of me. She kissed me on the hand and whispered that I was pretty every day in math class. Her chapstick was watermelon, her left eye was brown, and for a few short weeks the entire world was warm and happy and the air tasted like Almost Toast.</p>
<p>After Terra got home from the “acute inpatient facility,” I almost didn’t recognize him. I was fourteen, hadn’t seen him in six years, and he was a mountain of a guy. He was quiet, and didn’t seem to engage with anything mentally, but Ventus got him to open up after a while. One warm day in late fall we hung out in the backyard and Ventus demanded we learn how to throw a spiral. He pulled a football that was too large for either of us out of his backpack and we failed miserably for a solid two hours before Terra’s father chucked a soccer ball in the backyard. He told us to behave like civilized human beings. The kool aid was purple on my tongue, the tostones were extra salty, and the air was Almost Toast.</p>
<p>When I graduated High School, Terra came out to see the ceremony. No one recognized him. This was important because he’d been expelled on his first day a few years prior and — on a technicality — was not allowed on the premises. He wore a flannel and these ugly-ass pink and green shoes that he called “the gayest fucking things I have ever seen in my life,” which he later trashed trying to learn how to skateboard. He had his tamagotchi, which we passed between us after the ceremony during dinner with my parents, feeding the little pixel character until it complained. We got ice cream, the weather was warm, it was my final summer as a kid, and the air was Almost Toast.</p>
<p>Those days are the best.</p>
<p>This is not one of them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. My World Is Ending</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Four Days Later: Monday, August 9th</strong>
</p>
<p>“I want to meet them.”</p>
<p>Looking up from my omelette, I fix my mother with a look as she strides out of the hall in her fluffy orange robe. “Paine?” I ask groggily.</p>
<p>Hands on her hips, mom leans forward to dramatically blow a raspberry. “Of course! I don’t know anyone <em>else</em> with they/them pronouns. I’m a hermit. Now-” She claps her hands entirely for the drama of it. “When do I get to meet them?”</p>
<p>“Uh…” I say smartly. “Paine works evenings. They get off at like… around ten. You go to bed way before that. Maybe this weekend?”</p>
<p>“Good. Ask them. I’ll get you boxes and look into renting a van today.” She turns as she says this, hand pointing dramatically toward the ceiling.</p>
<p>I watch her walk away, slippers flapping against her feet. “Mom, it’s been less than a week since we decided this.”</p>
<p>“I’m not getting any younger!”</p>
<p>My mom is strange.</p>
<p>Guess I had to get it from somewhere.</p>
<p>Eventually, long after mom has returned to her room, I get ready for work. I replace the rings in my ears with clear plastic posts. On come the leggings and exercise shorts. Tighter, stretchy shirt. Ankle socks. Jogging shoes. Pulling what little of my hair back I can with some bobby pins, I apply a bare minimum of eyeliner and a single layer of cherry chapstick — the greatest amount of makeup I can tolerate — before I head out the door.</p>
<p>Radiant Self Defense is a small studio just off Main Street in the heart of Radiant Garden (population 9,463.) It’s forty-five minutes one-way from home, an hour and a half by foot, and a solid ten minutes in a car, if you don’t care too much about speed limits. (Unless you are Terra, in which case it is a twenty minute commute, rolling stops are a crime, and you drive like an octogenarian with half a dozen eggs freebird in the back seat.) It also happens to be the business I run.</p>
<p>After unlocking the front doors, the first and most important deed of the day is simple.</p>
<p>Disinfect. <em>Everything</em>.</p>
<p>Counters, mats, floors, bathroom, mirrors — anything a hand can touch, I clean.</p>
<p>I should tell Paine about mom’s invitation.</p>
<p>I use cleaners in a rotation so the germs don’t get too used to it. Today is good old-fashioned bleach. The doors are wide open, letting in the summer breeze so I don't choke myself out. I can’t do this with bleach in Winter, which is why I’m so liberal with it during the Summer.</p>
<p>Should I text Paine? They’re probably sleeping.</p>
<p>Belle comes in and gets the till up and running.</p>
<p>Paine.</p>
<p>People start arriving for the morning session.</p>
<p>I should text Paine.</p>
<p>We begin warmups. Breathing. Stretching. An introduction to the day’s lesson.</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine is going to meet my mom.</em>
</p>
<p>I text them halfway through the day.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Mind if I come over when you’re done with work? I have some news.</em>
</p>
<p>A reply comes in minutes, the alert popping over the wikipedia page on dart frogs I am still reading.</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>:Thumbs Up Emoji: ill be hm @ 10 do u wanna ride?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>I can bus there, but a ride home would be great.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>Y don’t u spend the nite? u dnt hav work on tues, rite?</em>
</p>
<p>Sometimes I forget how much I hate text speak.</p>
<p>Right now is not one of those times.</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>Stay the nite :heart emoji: it can b prac 4 living tgethr</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>I have plans to hike with my mom tomorrow morning. Can’t.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>we cn cuddle aftr we hav sx.</em>
</p>
<p>We can cuddle after we have sex? That’s a cruel offer. Why is it off the table to begin with? What’s wrong with physical affection? Why do they only bring it up like it's a reward instead of some extremely normalized show of affection?</p>
<p>It feels unfair.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Still a no.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>I tried. shld b home @ 10. Rikku wrkin late.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Alright. I’ll see you then.</em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>Terra’s house is far too big for one person. It’s got these huge bushes out front to hide the fact that he’s breaking a good dozen HOA rules, what with his raised vegetable garden, shitty van, ankle-high grass, and the phase that he went through two years back that ultimately led to him removing the house’s wooden siding to expose the original brick. To my knowledge, the HOA hasn’t tried to cite him on any of this.</p>
<p>It looks great, anyways.</p>
<p>“The hives are producing a lot more honey than usual this year. The distribution company is thinking of sending it further out and labelling what plants and parks the pollen came from,” Terra tells me, elbow-deep in zucchini vines. He’s got his shirt off, putting on display tight cords of muscle, an intense farmer’s tan that shouldn’t be possible in our climate, and enough sweat to sustain the Sahara. It’s nearly ninety degrees and I’d probably enjoy the sight more if it didn’t feel downright incestuous to do so.</p>
<p>I’m not above admitting my best friend is hotter than the goddamn sun. I’m a lesbian, not blind.</p>
<p>As he clips zucchini off the vine, piling it in the basket at his side, Terra hums softly under his breath. “You know, it’s been a great summer for squash, too. I think I have another fifty pounds here for the food bank.”</p>
<p>“Sure that’s not too much? Didn’t they turn down part of your donation last year?” I point out. I’m sprawled out in one of the chairs I jacked from his deck, light hot against my exposed arms and thighs. I’m squinting; the sunglasses aren’t enough. If I keep this up I’ll get a headache.</p>
<p>Turning to grab the basket, Terra heaves it off the lip of the raised garden bed, pecs and biceps standing stark beneath the August sun. “Dorothea and I have an agreement, now. She grows tomatoes, I grow squash, and every week she trades three pounds of produce for a fresh square of honeycomb. I may have a green thumb, but I don’t have as much space to work as she does.”</p>
<p>Wait. “Isn’t Dorothea racist? Didn’t she used to whisper slurs at you at church whenever you passed and shit?”</p>
<p>“She’s changed a lot since her granddaughter eloped to the city and married a black guy. I mean, yeah, she’s still racist, but she’s the kind of racist that thinks she’s overcome racism and is trying too hard to make friends with ‘<em>The Ethnics</em>.’ She’s trying. I’m not about to forgive her, but let’s not discourage the progress we want to see.”</p>
<p>Turning my face back to the cloudless sky, I close my eyes and sigh. “You are too magnanimous, your majesty.”</p>
<p>“That’s a reference, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“You’d get it if you watched anything that wasn’t porn.”</p>
<p>“Not all of us can walk into a bar and get our genitals sucked, milady. Now, stop investing in a sunburn and help me with these veggies.”</p>
<p>Peeking out from under my sunglasses for dramatic effect, I shrug. “Can I put them anywhere fun?”</p>
<p>“Aqua, please; we’re donating these.”</p>
<p>“Damn.” Climbing out of the chair, I stand and stretch before grabbing one of the produce baskets. “You know you should grow those mini cucumbers. You did them a few years ago, remember? You could make pickles. You can’t pickle zucchini… can you?”</p>
<p>Leading the way through the side gate, Terra nudges a fallen yellow squash out of the way with his foot. “Those little cucumbers take a lot of land. I need things that produce a lot with as few resources as possible. As much as I would love to be able to pickle or preserve to store my food at room temperature to save on food bills for the rest of the year, I don’t have the knowledge or resources for that yet. I can freeze zucchini for a bit, but I don’t like how it tastes after a few months, and other things would take time, money, equipment, and land that I just don’t have.”</p>
<p>“Mom said you could use her yard,” I point out, not for the first time. I spare a glance at the beehive a good thirty feet from us, sheltered beneath the branches of just enough apple trees to be considered an orchard.</p>
<p>“Too visible. The HOA would be up your ass in a hot second.” Passing the sliding glass door leading into the basement, he scales the stone path leading up the steep hill his house is built into. When I catch up he’s wiping his feet on the mat in front of the identical door leading into the kitchen. As soon as he finishes, he slides the door open with an elbow and steps inside.</p>
<p>If I didn’t know better, I’d think Terra had a middle-class income. His furniture is modern and color-coded to the rest of the decor. The brick walls are painted a deep blue, and what isn’t brick is a bold red. The hardwood is well loved. Thick white carpets are clean and plush. I’m still not completely convinced he didn’t pick up an interior design magazine and absorb everything through osmosis.</p>
<p>“So Paine is coming to the party, then?”</p>
<p>As I wipe off my shoes, I glance at Terra through the open door. “Yeah. Is that okay?”</p>
<p>“I mean… I guess?” He takes one of those calming breathes — in through his nose, shoulders raising, out through the mouth — and that is both a good and a bad thing. Placing the basket on the counter, he motions for me to do the same, then heads back to the sliding door. “You know I don’t like unexpected guests, or sudden schedule changes. They’re hard to mentally prepare for. We’re setting a precedent with Paine that I’m not comfortable with, okay?”</p>
<p>Stepping inside, I settle the basket on the counter. The braided pattern has left indents on my skin. “How so?”</p>
<p>Crossing his arms, Terra grabs the towel hanging from his belt and starts dragging it over his chest and arms, wiping up the sweat. “In the hour we were supposed to meet them they called you out of a group event, cancelled our plans, and involved themselves in a party they weren’t even invited to. That was literally all within an hour. Frankly, that was closer to ten minutes. But instead of putting a foot down you facilitated all of it. We were supposed to meet on neutral ground. These aren’t concessions I can safely give. This isn’t a good start.”</p>
<p>Nausea settles low in my stomach at the words. As he moves back out of the kitchen and into the back yard, I follow. “What do you think of this? Me and Paine moving in together?”</p>
<p>Terra doesn’t respond at first, making his way through the side gate and back into the garden. As we come to the second batch of baskets, he bends down and shakes his head. “I don’t know Aqua,” he begins, voice low, hoisting the vegetables onto his hip. He turns to me, but he sounds distant as he says, “I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a month. I’m the last person you should ask.”</p>
<p>Reaching for my own basket, I hoist it up, then head back through the gate. “Never, huh? What about Xion?”</p>
<p>“Xion doesn’t count.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Terra has no answer to this.</p>
<p>Scaling the hill, I wipe off my shoes, then step into the kitchen, waiting for Terra to catch up.</p>
<p>Eventually he steps into the room, placing the basket by the others and heaving a sigh. Then, running a hand through his hair — short, dark brown, framing his face and cut for a fauxhawk — he pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and takes a seat. “Look- Take a seat for a second, would you?”</p>
<p>Pulling out a chair for myself, I settle down and stare across at my best friend with mixed feelings as he fiddles with his nails before speaking.</p>
<p>“I’m happy for you. I really am. I want to support what you’re doing. But it’s hard to support what you’re doing when you’re being so… uncharacteristic. I know they’re making you feel younger than you have in a while — you’ve made it clear that your life has been dragging lately — but that shouldn’t come at the expense of what you’ve spent so long to build. I know that sounds like preaching, and I’m probably crossing a lot of lines right now, but I need you to understand-” oh this is a lot of words, “-that even if we don’t rib you about it or have arguments like we used to, running out on us for a booty call was not okay. It’s not a big deal right now-” I’m hearing the words, but I’m not absorbing them, “-but it will be if it becomes a pattern. Anyone you date, we want to be able to bring into the circle, and if we can’t do that then there are going to be some logistic overlaps, and while I know that you know this I don’t think you’ve been keeping it in mind.”</p>
<p>I got maybe 20% of that.</p>
<p>He stares at me for a moment, and I must have that look I make because he sighs and asks, “Do you need me to summarize that?”</p>
<p>“Yes please.”</p>
<p>There’s a moment he takes to think, shifting to lean back in his chair. It creaks as he leans back just enough to bring the front legs off the floor, then eases back. “Bailing on us at the gig for a booty call was not appropriate,” he begins, tone even and calm, the way he always is. “Cancelling plans without consulting those involved was not appropriate. Paine inviting themself to my birthday party was not appropriate. That’s the first half.”</p>
<p>“You’re right,” I agree, because he is. He kind of always is, when he’s not lying to himself. “Go ahead with the second half.”</p>
<p>“They’re crossing our lines, and you’re following right along, and we haven’t even met them yet. This is not a safe precedent to start this introduction, and I need you to acknowledge that before we go any further with them.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” I say out of habit, and I mean it. The words haven’t really processed yet, but he’s right. I bailed for a booty call when we had plans. I disrupted something he had been mentally preparing himself for as a favor to me. I should have known better. “I’ll pay more attention going forward, and also talk to them about boundaries,” I promise, settling my arms on the table. “Sorry for putting you in this position.”</p>
<p>He heaves another sigh — one of those long in the nose, out the mouth ones — and rests his elbows on the table, leaning over the surface and whispering a soft, “Thanks. And…”</p>
<p>I wait.</p>
<p>“Look, I know how you get in relationships. You don’t want to speak up. You don’t want to ruin things. But if you don’t speak up, things are going to go downhill for all of us really quickly.”</p>
<p>My head bobs on instinct. He’s not wrong. I know he’s not wrong. I already know this.</p>
<p>I feel like shit.</p>
<p>We spend the next few hours bringing in vegetables, rinsing them, and packaging them. Afterwards I wash my hands up to my elbows, then plop down on Terra’s couch. Laid out on the coffee table is tea and enough chips and salsa to fill me up three times over.</p>
<p>I eat half of it against my better judgement, feeling overfull and a little nauseous by the time we can see the bottom of the bowl.</p>
<p>Around nine I excuse myself to take the bus, but Terra cuts me off.</p>
<p>“I’ll give you a ride,” he offers.</p>
<p>“You sure?”</p>
<p>Terra shrugs, shaking his head. “I’m headed to the gym tonight, anyways. They live near Xion’s parlor, right? That’s the same direction. If it’s busy I’ll just check on the hive in the park a few blocks away and go in a little later.”</p>
<p>I think for a second, then shrug. “If you’re sure.”</p>
<p>We watch random youtube videos for another forty-five minutes before Terra gets up and grabs his gym bag from the corner where he usually keeps his beekeeping gear. He slings it over his shoulder, looking confident and attractive.</p>
<p>Like a normal man going to the gym.</p>
<p>Paine’s place is near the heart of town. It’s a one-story house with a sloped roof and gravel in place of grass. To be honest, it looks pretty cheap. But apparently renting right now is a nightmare, so beggars can’t be choosers. It’s a miracle they can afford to rent at their age at all.</p>
<p>Hopping out of Terra’s van — a mechanic’s nightmare from the 1960s with few windows, retroactively installed back seats, retroactively installed <em>seatbelts</em>, peeling black paint, “Diazzz Beekeeping” in peel-and-stick car decals that have magically survived the last five years of bullshit, and easily a couple hundred little bees drawn all along the frame in metallic sharpie by yours truly — I stare up at the cheap house with a roiling in my stomach.</p>
<p>Be quiet, anxiety.</p>
<p>It’s 10:05PM and maybe I’m early, maybe I’m late. We said ten, but did we mean ten?</p>
<p>I double check the text.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Mind if I come over when you’re done with work? I have some news.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>:Thumbs Up Emoji: ill be home @ 10 do u wanna ride?</em>
</p>
<p>Scrolling to the bottom of the chat, I start moving towards front door as I text them, listening to the roar of Terra’s ancient beemobile as he drives away.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Just got here. Heading up the sidewalk.</em>
</p>
<p>There’s no reply, but they’re still probably changing out of their work clothes.</p>
<p>Paine is a dental college student who works swing at a clinic as a junior dental assistant… or something like that. It’s not what I imagined when we first met, and they still don’t strike me as the kind of person who would clean your teeth, let alone have the patience, but I don’t need to imagine it for it to be possible.</p>
<p>One day I’m going to see them in scrubs, and…</p>
<p>Welp. Today is that day, apparently.</p>
<p>As I reach the front steps, there comes the clattering of a defeated engine barely clinging to the threads of life. I stop and turn to see Paine’s car limping down the street. The paint is peeled entirely off the front of the car, one headlight is out, and a bright red bumper sticker on the front has been faded and thrashed by weather and fender benders to the point of unreadability where there isn’t enough duct tape to obscure the front of the vehicle in an attempt to keep itself together. As Paine pulls over to the front of the house, the vehicle gives one last dying scream before the lights go out.</p>
<p>They hop out of the car after a moment of patting through the roll-down, manual window for the door handle to free themself from the death trap. Then, rolling the window back up and slamming it shut, they round the car and approach me. Keys in one hand, phone in the other, Paine is illuminated by the porch light and decidedly not a vision. Instead of clear plastic posts like I use for work, they’ve replaced all their piercings with flat, minimalist studs that can barely be seen against their skin, all the same dusty shade of tan to match, even if they’re a touch lighter. I probably wouldn’t have noticed them if I didn’t know exactly where to look. Their scrubs are a pastel green, hanging from their shoulders and hips, loose aside from the elastic keeping them in place. Their tattoos are hidden under their clothes, and there are no cuffs or buckles. Even their hair is combed to the side, small sections done up in thin braids to frame thick black glasses.</p>
<p>“Hey, Paine,” I greet.</p>
<p>They look up from their phone, gaze meeting mine, and their eyes are so brown under their glasses that they’re black. I’m so used to the red contacts that it’s jarring. “Hey, babe,” they say.</p>
<p>I’ll get used to that eventually.</p>
<p>Turning back to the door, they unlock their apartment and step in, motioning for me to follow. “Yuna’s asleep by now, so we’ll have to be quiet.”</p>
<p>I’m hit with a wave of heat the moment I step inside. It’s not the comforting kind. It feels muggy and overhot and bordering unsafe. Looks like they still haven’t gotten air conditioning.</p>
<p>The living room is small, but cozy. Instead of a couch there are three stand-alone recliners, each with their own throw. A flatscreen is mounted on the wall, and there are TV tables next to each chair. The kitchen is a hodgepodge of cheap appliances that are held together with duct tape and kisses — or I assume from the smeared lipstick on the silver bandage on the coffee pot, which <em>cannot</em> be OSHA compliant. The counters are chipped and discolored, and the floors are cheap linoleum with an alternating brown and white pattern. Large sections have cracked and are curling up around themselves.</p>
<p>Note To Self: Do Not Step There.</p>
<p>Turning out of the kitchen, Paine walks into the bathroom and flips on the light. It’s too bright for a second, but then my eyes adjust. They breathe a sigh as they reach for the washcloth hanging precariously from a nail on the wall. Leaning over the counter, they squint into the mirror and remove the studs one by one, exchanging them with the hoops in a small cup next to the faucet. “This’ll take a minute.”</p>
<p>“Take your time,” I assure them. Glancing over the door frame, I check it for protruding bits of wood or nails before leaning my shoulder into it. Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch them fish around with the earrings to get the backs on. “Long day?”</p>
<p>They hum. “Yeah. Some soccer mom came in with like six kids, all with appointments one after the other. Two of them were screaming the entire time, and the last one kept asking me to play with him. One of them tried to climb the X-ray machine. Their mom didn’t do anything. She just sat there with her face in her fuckin’ phone, earbuds in. Six kids and zero fucks; didn’t know that was possible, but she must have run out making the kid. Three fuckin’ hours of that bullshit.”</p>
<p>“That’s rough, buddy.”</p>
<p>“Did you just call me buddy?”</p>
<p><em>My girlfriend turned into the moon</em>. My brain whispers it over and over, and my mouth gets stuck as I go to answer. To redirect. But instead it warps and warps until all I can think is <em>the moon turned into my girlfriend.</em></p>
<p>A small moon sprouts legs in my brain and starts tap-dancing across a dinosaur chicken nugget. “The great oxygenation event!” it screams.</p>
<p>“Whatever. Forget I asked.” Paine leans closer to the mirror. One ear done, they move onto the other. “So, moving in. You don’t hate my apartment too much, do you? I can’t really afford much beyond this, what with college and all, but I don’t really know what you make working at the studio. We can talk about budgeting tonight if you want, and if we want a place to ourselves.”</p>
<p>“How much are you guys paying for this place?”</p>
<p>“$1050 a month.”</p>
<p>Is that a lot for rent? I have no concept of that kind of thing.</p>
<p>But wow, this is a terrible place.</p>
<p>Leaning away from the mirror, hoops finally in place, Paine breathes a sigh and turns off the light. Stepping around me out of the bathroom, they head into the room at the end of the hall.</p>
<p>I follow, watching as they peel off scrubs and throw them to the floor, grabbing a tank top and a pair of shorts from the pile on the bed. The room itself is small. The bed is a twin, pushed up against the far wall, and an exceptionally tiny closet is across from it, filled to bursting with clothes and belts that I can tell at first glance also belong to their roommates, Rikku and Yuna. The doors are propped against the wall. Not on hinges, but literally separated from the frame itself and leaning up against the wall. Very little of the plywood surface can be seen beneath stripe after stripe of duct tape. It’s the cheap kind that peels at the edges, and has required multiple layers to keep itself on.</p>
<p>“You want something to drink?” Paine asks, grabbing laundry from the floor and lumping it into a haphazard pile by the door.</p>
<p>“Maybe. Whatcha got?”</p>
<p>“Some beer, a bottle of whisky, like… four kinds of energy drinks, and I think we still have some tequila left over, too. We’re almost out of coffee.”</p>
<p>“Got any juice?” I suggest, because literally all of those either have alcohol or caffeine. I don’t want to stay up all night or pass out on the way home; I just want something to drink and I don’t trust their tap water.</p>
<p>“Maybe? Rikku bought some juice boxes as a joke a few weeks ago, but Yuna might have drank them all.” They head into the hall, waving for me to follow. The hall is dim. They don’t bother turning a light on as they head to the pantry, pulling it open and digging around before retrieving a single juicebox.</p>
<p>It’s orange. I might get a canker sore from this.</p>
<p>They close the pantry and head toward the kitchen.</p>
<p>Resigning myself to orange juice, I follow at a distance. Leaning up against the counter as we exit the hall, I watch Paine grab a small pan from top of the fridge, where it sits atop a larger sauce pan next to a box of cheerios with what looks like a mouse hole chewed in the side and a large plastic tub of pasta that I’m pretty sure 1) was not made to store food, 2) could not possibly be airtight, and 3) came from the dollar store. There could be any number of bugs in there.</p>
<p><em>The mouse that got the cheerios could be in there</em>.</p>
<p>What if...</p>
<p>What if they named the mouse?</p>
<p>I say nothing.</p>
<p>Paine gets some eggs from the fridge (I avert my eyes for the sake of my mental health) and cracks them into the pan before tossing them haphazardly into the trash. Thankfully for my sanity, they make it. They then proceed to cook the eggs… without adding any salt or pepper.</p>
<p>Oh, they’re just going to smother it in sriracha, aren’t they? They- Yup, they grabbed it from the fridge.</p>
<p>Scooping the eggs onto a plate, Paine turns off the stove, sets the pan on the backburner, and circles the eggs with two swirls of sriracha. “So. News.” They take a bite of eggs.</p>
<p>It crunches in the way eggs should not crunch.</p>
<p>They pause, eyes wide and fixed on the counter as the realization no doubt hits that they didn’t crack the egg right.</p>
<p>I don’t address it. “Mom says she’ll rent a van for us to move my stuff, and she wants to meet you. Preferably this weekend.”</p>
<p>Slowly, <em>painfully</em>, Paine resumes chewing the eggs in their mouth — oh shit, this sounds disgusting. Shit, I forgot to put on music. Nausea. Nausea, nausea, <em>nausea</em>. Gross. Gross, gross, gross. <em>Gross</em>.</p>
<p>Reaching for my phone in my back pocket, I whip it out and navigate as quickly as I can to my music app, tapping a finger desperately against the first song on the list. Banjos fill the room just enough to cover the nauseating mash of teeth and food.</p>
<p>With a grimace, Paine swallows and stabs at the eggs. “Can you play literally anything else?”</p>
<p>“I just needed something to cover the sound,” I point out, scrolling further down my file list. “I’m changing the song now. And since when do you hate Sufjan Stevens?”</p>
<p>“Since when? Since always. Keep your City Hipster Christian music to yourself, thanks,” they snort.</p>
<p>It kind of hurts. I may not like Christian music, but I am fond of Sufjan. But I don’t argue, because I don’t want to argue. This isn’t a hill I want to die on. Instead I put on some ACDC for them. It gives me a headache, but it beats throwing up all over the counter.</p>
<p>“So I’m finally gonna meet your mom, huh?” they repeat, voice low. Their eyes slip up, meeting mine for an uncomfortable moment before I turn my gaze back to my phone, looking for something to play next. “It’s about time.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, about time,” I say. Are we moving too fast? Are things going to go horribly wrong?</p>
<p>“Are you sure she’s excited to meet me?”</p>
<p>My fingers pause over my phone. “Why wouldn’t she be?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Maybe I just think that ‘cause my parents are shit.”</p>
<p>“Maybe,” I agree, not knowing how to really answer that.</p>
<p>They hum, then take another bite. After a moment Paine’s fork clatters to the plate and they ask, “What does your dad think of all this?”</p>
<p>Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, <em>fuck, fuck, fuck</em>.</p>
<p>Climbing volume. Sirens. Blood. Chalk. Blood. People, people, <em>people in our backyard</em>. <em>Blood</em>.</p>
<p>Body.</p>
<p>Static.</p>
<p>Cold.</p>
<p>There’s sound. A voice. It processes like one of the parents in those Peanuts cartoons. There’s my phone, but it’s not my phone and then it is. It’s warm against my fingers, which have gone so, so cold. I’m <em>freezing</em>.</p>
<p>“- <em>hey</em>, are you even listening to me? Jesus Christ.”</p>
<p>“Sorry. Zoned out there for a second.” It’s not a lie. But it is. It <em>is</em>. I’m lying. I’m <em>lying</em> and why is the world so obsessed with fathers? Why do people have to bring them up all the time? Why is everyone so dead set on-</p>
<p>“So you weren’t listening, great.”</p>
<p>What? “I just said I zoned out. It’s not that I wasn’t listening. What did you ask?”</p>
<p>“Just forget it, okay? I don’t like repeating myself.”</p>
<p>“Dude, just tell me what you asked. I didn’t zone out on purpose.”</p>
<p>“Nope.” Picking up their plate, Paine turns to the sink and rinses it off, reaching for the dishwasher and popping it in the lower rack, then striding quickly toward the hall.</p>
<p>I scramble after them, following them and hanging in the doorway as they pick up their toothbrush and switch on the tap. “You’re mad.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’m mad. You know I don’t like when people don’t listen to me.” They put a small glop of toothpaste on their brush, then bring it to their teeth.</p>
<p>“I’m Autistic. It’s going to happen sometimes. My brain is going to jump on some train and I’m going to zone out, and it’s not because I’m ignoring you.”</p>
<p>Pausing in their brushing, Paine moves the brush to their back teeth to talk around it. “Must be a nice little excuse to keep in your back pocket.”</p>
<p>What? What the… <em>What</em>? “What the<em> fuck</em>?”</p>
<p>Paine shrugs, and murmurs an entirely unconvincing, “Sorry,” before going back to brushing.</p>
<p>“Sorry?” I parrot, exasperated. Sorry my ass. What the hell? What the actual fuck was that? That was, like… Textbook manipulation <em>and</em> discrimination. Not that I'm going to say that 'cause they're probably just pitching a fit but...</p>
<p>What the hell?</p>
<p>Another shrug. They keep brushing.</p>
<p>After a few minutes, I turn to leave. I’m halfway down the hall before I hear Paine spit and water run.</p>
<p>“Every time I bring up your family you get really cagey and won’t tell me anything.”</p>
<p>I freeze.</p>
<p>“So no, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable when it’s gotten to the point where whenever I ask you about them you just… <em>zone out</em>. It feels like you’re using your Autism to get out of answering questions about your family.”</p>
<p>Technically I’m using Autism to get out of answering questions about potential PTSD about what happened with my family.</p>
<p>I don’t want to be here.</p>
<p>Paine keeps talking. “Every time I bring them up you close off and you refuse to answer any substantial questions. You know all about my trainwreck of a family, but I don’t even know your parents’ <em>names</em>. Their <em>names</em>. That’s super basic! It’s like everything with you is behind a paywall, and I’m just on the trial subscription for the lowest tier or some stupid shit like that.”</p>
<p>But if you google their names, the first thing you’ll find is an article about how my father shot himself in the backyard.</p>
<p>So I say nothing.</p>
<p>I don’t want to be here.</p>
<p>Do I really want to move in with them? Or am I doing it because Paine is the only person willing to put up with me?</p>
<p>I want to cry.</p>
<p>“Hey.”</p>
<p>There’s pressure on my arm, and I want to jerk away, but some distant part of me recognizes it’s Paine and I shouldn’t do that.</p>
<p>“<em>Hey</em>, I’m sorry, okay?” they whisper, and they sound so <em>sincere</em>. It kind of hurts. “Babe-” <em>Fuck</em> I hate that endearment. “-I want you to know that. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said that. I’m frustrated and I lashed out. I should be excited that I’m finally going to meet your parents, even if it’s just your mom.”</p>
<p>I want to leave.</p>
<p>“Come to bed,” they whisper. “We’ll talk this over. I’ll stop being stupid. We can cuddle.”</p>
<p>Shifting back to face them staring down at the three inch difference between us, I stand stock still as they raise up on their toes. I take a breath and look away. “Did you use mouthwash?” I ask.</p>
<p>They freeze. They ease back down to the floor, then head back down the hall and into the bathroom. There’s the click of a cap, fluid, and gargling. They rejoin me before too long, breath so fresh I can smell it from steps away. “All clean for my immunocompromised girlfriend,” they whisper, hands going for my neck and pulling me down.</p>
<p>I fall into the kiss. Their arms wind around my neck and I bend down until our noses are crushed between us, angling my face a little too late to facilitate the affection. A tongue slips in my mouth before long, fresh and minty and a little rough.</p>
<p>Pulling away, Paine presses a soft kiss to my cheek, then my neck. “Come to bed,” they whisper. “I’ll get that strapon you like, and we can cuddle extra after.”</p>
<p>It’s an attractive prospect.</p>
<p>Their fingers slip down my arms and into my hands, twining with mine to drag me toward their room.</p>
<p>There’s a lot of anger in my stomach, still, but I push it away.</p>
<p>You shouldn’t go to bed angry.</p>
<p>We make it into the room and they close the door behind us, reaching for my jacket and pushing it off with my backpack. “Be quiet for me, baby.” Their voice is low and sultry and goes straight to my hips. Fingers find the edges of my shirt, pushing it up and over my head, then the clasp of my bra. It’s slipped off and dropped to the floor with the rest, my breasts swaying free. Paine pushes their face between them, humming. They’re cheek-deep in my chest when their voice burrows into my skin. “Fuck, this is nice.”</p>
<p>I pet my hand over their hair as they burrow into my chest.</p>
<p>Then they pull away. Drop to their knees. They tug at the button of my jeans, undoing them quickly and pushing them to the floor. “Leggings?” they laugh, staring at the article in question. “It’s eighty degrees!”</p>
<p>“Still cold,” I reply dryly.</p>
<p>“My ice cube,” they whisper, then pull them down as well, followed by my underwear and socks.</p>
<p>And then I’m naked.</p>
<p>I'm kinda freezing like this, dead of Summer or not, but once the adrenaline starts pumping I'll warm up.</p>
<p>Their lips leave small, feather-light kisses across my hips before they rise to their feet. “I’ll be just a second. Make yourself comfy on the bed</p>
<p>I shiver. I watch them cross the small, cramped room to their closet. Then, I turn to the bed. It’s a twin, crammed up against the wall to make room for everything else. I climb atop it, feeling exposed.</p>
<p>I don’t like being naked.</p>
<p>Paine steps up to the edge of the bed before long, lube and condoms in one hand, harnessed double dildo in the other.</p>
<p>Despite myself, I cover my face. Time passes. Minutes, maybe, but then Paine’s warm hands are pulling mine aside.</p>
<p>“Look at me,” they say. “Look at me.”</p>
<p>I do.</p>
<p>Their eyes are too intense. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.</p>
<p>There’s pressure at the opening of my vagina — the slick give and gentle shift of a lubed condom over a dildo — and then they’re pushing in.</p>
<p>“Look at me,” they whisper again bending forward to press their lips to my collarbone. “Only at me.”</p>
<p>I want to turn the lights out.</p>
<p>I want to close my eyes.</p>
<p>I want to do this under the covers.</p>
<p>I want my shirt.</p>
<p>As soon as the harness is flush between us, along with a pair of cotton boxers that pad the gear, Paine reaches up to twine our hands together, pinning me to the bed, then pulling their hips back. “Ready, babe?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I whisper. The dildo is large and solid and fills me up so well, it’s a bit of a relief. But why do they get clothes when I don't? Should I speak up about this?</p>
<p>They push forward.</p>
<p>I keen.</p>
<p>This, at least, is good.</p>
<hr/>
<p>After, we lay together a bit. Paine still has the dildo hanging from the harness, pushing the protruding end of the toy between my legs to get friction. It’s like they have a dick and they’re slowly humping my leg. They’re still wearing the boxers, too, and their sports bra is a size too small.</p>
<p>Maybe they’re feeling dysphoric today.</p>
<p>I get up to use the restroom before too long, pulling on my clothes before heading out into the hall. After I’m done I wash my hands twice, throwing a tense glance to the shower. I usually like to wipe myself down after sex, at the very least, but...</p>
<p>My eyes can’t stop shifting over the spots of black along the tub sealant. They shift away, only to land on old bath tools: a series of thin bars of discolored soap, a back scrubber with cracked wood from leaving it submerged in water repeatedly, and a sea sponge that I suspect is shared between everyone in the apartment and has <em>definitely</em> surpassed its thirty day shelf life. I’d probably get sick showering in there.</p>
<p>Even the towels smell musty. I’m not sure if they’ve been washed recently, or if enough detergent was used.</p>
<p>As soon as I step out of the bathroom, Paine is there in shorts and a tank top. “My turn.”</p>
<p>I step aside, then head back into the room. Grabbing my bag and jacket from the floor, I head back out into the hall and wait for Paine to finish. As soon as they step out, we head back out to the car. The night air is cold compared to the house, and I shrug my jacket on with a shiver, earning a sigh and a shake of the head from Paine.</p>
<p>The ride home is silent, the way Paine usually gets after sex, but when we arrive in front of my house they turn to me and say, “Tomorrow, 11PM. You, me, a van. Are you cool with that?””</p>
<p>“I’ll be right here,” I answer, jerking a thumb to the sidewalk.</p>
<p>Paine’s grin is wide and satisfied. “Good.”</p>
<p>Pushing open the car door, I hop out and slam it shut, walking quickly up to my front door. Digging my key out of my front jacket pocket, I unlock the house and head inside. The lights are out. The floors are recently vacuumed. The hall is silent and mom’s door is closed.</p>
<p>Pulling out my phone, I put a reminder in my calendar for eleven tomorrow evening.</p>
<p>
  <em>Tuesday August 10th<br/>11PM to 11:30PM<br/>Move Shit W/ Paine</em>
</p>
<p>Once that's saved I go straight for the bathroom.</p>
<p>Twisting the knobs for the water, I fill the bath until it steams, then peel off my clothes and step in. The water is too hot at first, and I spend a good ten minutes adjusting with cold and hot water until it’s just right, only to sink in, find it too cold, and add more hot water until my feet are boiling and my hips are frigid. I swim it around tentatively with my hands. Then, grabbing a loofah, I spend the next half hour rubbing my skin raw. I wash my hair twice. Rinse it three times. Rub conditioner in and leave it. Finally, I take the loofah to my skin one more time until I feel like the day is gone and it’s just me sitting in a bath full of germs and particles and disgusting things.</p>
<p>Then I drain the bath water and rinse again.</p>
<p>When I finally leave the bathroom my teeth have been brushed within an inch of their collective lives and I stare down the pile of boxes my mother no doubt left me.</p>
<p>Whelp.</p>
<p>Time to get to work.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>The Next Day: Tuesday, August 10th</strong>
</p>
<p>As usual, my mother wakes me at five in the morning for our morning hike. I’ve had approximately two hours of sleep. My room is half packed. My face feels like death. My body is cold. My phone has one missed call and a series of texts from Xion.</p>
<p>
  <em>Xion Stoner: Can’t make it today. Tell your mom hi for me. :Zombie Emoji: :Eggplant Emoji: :Eggplant Emoji: :Zombie Emoji: :Baby Emoji: :Ribbon Emoji: Sorry, wrong person.</em>
</p>
<p>Who could she <em>possibly</em> be sending those emojis to? Is Lea secretly a zombie buff or something? (A zombie buff with a stiffy for Dat Flesh. Those <em>were</em> eggplant emojis. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.)</p>
<p>Breakfast is eggs and toast, and then we’re off. Mom has this little moped that we hop onto. It’s an unnecessarily bright yellow (she calls it “cheerful”) that is visible in all weather patterns and could blind you on a bright day without proper eye protection. The ponytail of her wig whips my shoulders as we ride, streaked with gray to match her eyebrows. Where we hike isn’t a long ride away; about ten minutes. It’s just long enough to get a chill from the morning wind.</p>
<p>Mom navigates through the bike entryway, nearly hitting the welcome sign — <em>Radiant Trails</em> — and parks in the lot. On our way in we drop a few bucks in the community donation bin — <em>Keep your parks open. Donate today!</em></p>
<p>This time of year the undergrowth is dry. It’s anyone’s guess if Radiant Garden’s abundantly dry summer will yield a brush fire before the rain can hit. The grass fades to a dull beige the further we get up the first hill, bringing with it wilted ferns and just enough foliage overhead to bring relief from an already intense sun.</p>
<p>“Feels like we can expect a heat wave soon,” mom comments as we crest the first hill. “What do you think? Ask your fancy little phone.”</p>
<p>Reaching under my hoodie into my back pocket, I bring it out and press my thumb to the sensor to unlock it. “High eighties today and for the rest of the week. Ten day forecast says we might get into the hundreds.” As she slows to a stop, so do I.</p>
<p>“Hundreds? Five bucks some idiot sets off a firework in the woods and lights everything ablaze on the hottest day of the year.” She snorts, hands on her hips as she takes in the path. She looks paler than usual. Her makeup is thicker, too.</p>
<p>I don’t comment. If something was wrong she would tell me. Instead, I push my sunglasses up my nose and keep walking.</p>
<p>We head down the hill, feet shuffling along in an effort not to sprint down with all the momentum our bodies can muster. (We’d probably run into a tree or the ground, knowing us.) Mom kicks a rock into the dying grass. Shouts something silly when a squirrel rushes up a tree. Intentionally walks on an incredibly-inconvenient-to-get-to log. Nearly falls into the creek trying to get a shot of a raccoon with my little point and shoot.</p>
<p>After giving up on the shot, she hands me back the camera with a defeated sigh. I try to ignore the foundation smeared over the screen. Gotta disinfect that later.</p>
<p>“Isn’t Terra installing a hive here?” she asks as we near a picnic table. The path widens out into a mock valley, a creek running beneath a small bridge.</p>
<p>“Nah. They couldn’t find a trail that works, logistically. They’re putting off plans until something catches on fire or something and they end up with an area that works.”</p>
<p>“Huh. That’s too bad. But we don’t want someone with a bee allergy dropping dead in the middle of the trail so perhaps it’s for the best.” Collapsing on the bench, mom leans her elbows on the table and breathes a long, slow breath. “Maybe I am a little tired today. I’m quite winded already.”</p>
<p>“Stop doing gymnastics trying to get a shot of a racoon and maybe you’ll have enough stamina to finish the hike,” I joke.</p>
<p>She blows a raspberry at this. “Then <em>what</em>, pray tell my darling, is the <em>point</em> of hiking? You think I’d willingly be out in the wild if I couldn’t stare at the wildlife through a zoom lens? Honestly, be <em>realistic.</em>”</p>
<p>“Okay, mom.” Drama Queen.</p>
<p>I join her at the table before long, pulling jerky and crackers out of my sling bag and passing them to mom. We mostly nibble, taking sips from bottles of water as we stare out over the grass. It’s grown tall in the little clearing we’re in, brushing halfway up our knees.</p>
<p>After we finish a good amount of the jerky, mom begins to hum. It’s one of those songs of hers. Even without the lyrics I know it’s a Yiddish one. She backs off on the high notes, voice cracking.</p>
<p>Maybe later I can convince her to teach it to me. Maybe. I should write a paper and fill it with all the things I want to know about our heritage. What’s it like, mom? Why do you wear wigs? Why don’t you eat shellfish?</p>
<p>Why are the instruments of our culture sitting in the bottom of your dresser wrapped in fabric, away from all eyes — including my own?</p>
<p>I can defend myself, now. I’m an adult. I want to learn.</p>
<p>Mom gets up before long, pushing herself up from the table with both hands. “Shall we get going?”</p>
<p>Agreeing, I swing my legs over the open center of the seat and follow her through the tall grass back to the trail.</p>
<p>We’re halfway up the first big hill when there comes the distant crack of thunder. And then-</p>
<p>Oh, fuck, that’s a lot of rain.</p>
<p>Quickly fumbling for the hoodie around my waist, I pull it on and glance over at mom, who’s doing the same. She looks so frail, swimming in the pale pink fabric. We turn back as a pair without any coordination, mom taking out her hearing aids and handing them off for me to put in a small plastic bag, storing them in my backpack to keep them from getting damaged by the rain. It’s practically second nature. We don’t need to talk to know the trail is going to get dangerous, one or both of us will get sick, and it’s not worth it.</p>
<p>We make it to the two mile marker when mom finally speaks. Her voice is too loud, the way it is when her hearing aids are out. “I need to tell you something.”</p>
<p>Glancing over at her, I make a point to step into her line of vision before nodding. Not for the first time I wish we had taken the time to learn some sign language together.</p>
<p>She looks at me for a long moment, mouth a grim line. Her wig is poking out at odd angles, and her hoodie is soaked through. I hope she doesn’t catch a cold. She looks so pale today, under all that makeup. “I shipped your father’s ashes to his sister in Destiny Islands.”</p>
<p>It takes a moment to process what she said.</p>
<p>Shipped.</p>
<p>Destiny Islands.</p>
<p>Dad.</p>
<p>
  <em>There’s a phone ringing.</em>
</p>
<p>“- tried to bring this up-”</p>
<p>
  <em>Sirens, distant and then not.</em>
</p>
<p>“- but every time- <em>Aqua</em>.”</p>
<p>
  <em>A hallway. The back door, so heavy. The creak of unoiled hinges.</em>
</p>
<p>“- please don’t walk aw-”</p>
<p>
  <em>Freshly trimmed grass. Flowers slowly beginning to wilt. Blood.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Blood.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>So much blood.</em>
</p>
<p>Stop. Stop, stop. I’ve got to <em>stop</em>. Where am I? Where am I, where am I…</p>
<p>One mile marker.</p>
<p>That’s the one mile marker.</p>
<p>It’s raining. It smells like ozone and dirt and it’s raining. Thunder. Trail. One mile.</p>
<p>Where…</p>
<p>Where is mom?</p>
<p>I glance around, from the trees whipping around as the wind kicks up in earnest to the muddy trail. Dry undergrowth, turning gray from the sun that was so, so present not even half an hour ago. Or has it been longer? How long has it been? Where is she?</p>
<p>“Mom?” I shout, looking around. I feel like a child. I feel like a child who’s been lost in the supermarket and the world is ending. “<em>Mom?</em>”</p>
<p>The world is ending.</p>
<p>I sprint back down the trail, shouting even though I know it won’t help. It won’t help because I have her hearing aids. I have her <em>hearing aids</em>. Where is she? Where <em>is she</em>?</p>
<p>Where?</p>
<p>Where?!</p>
<p>
  <em>Where?!</em>
</p>
<p>There.</p>
<p>She’s there.</p>
<p>She’s limp against the ground, hoodie drenched in rain and wig splayed across the trail. She’s almost as cold as I am when I touch her, trying to wake her. What happened? Did she trip? But she was so <em>tired</em> today. She was so <em>tired</em> and she’s getting so <em>old</em>. I want to believe she’s immortal but she’s not. She’s <em>not</em>.</p>
<p>“Mom,” I whisper, even though I know she can’t hear me. I reach for my phone on instinct. Not out of urgency, but out of practice.</p>
<p>
  <em>When you are in danger and need help, call 9-1-1. The nice person on the other end is trained to walk you through your problem while they get help.</em>
</p>
<p>Everything I ever needed to know, I learned in Kindergarten.</p>
<p>“<em>This is 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?</em>”</p>
<p>“My mom collapsed,” I answer quickly. What do I say? What do I <em>say</em>? “She’s, uh… Alte Toyoguchi, 78 years old. We were hiking and it started to rain so we started to head back. We’re on Radiant Trails, about a mile and a half in. Her skin is cold and she’s unresponsive.”</p>
<p>“<em>An emergency response vehicle is on the way. Is Alte breathing?</em>”</p>
<p>Placing a finger under her nose, I try not to scream when I feel a brush of air against my skin. “Yes. Yes, she’s breathing.”</p>
<p>“<em>That’s very good. You’re doing very good.</em>”</p>
<p>No I’m not.</p>
<p>The operator tries to talk me through a panic attack as my breath starts coming quick, but it’s all I can do not to collapse onto my mom and bury my face into her hoodie. I’m not sure how much time passes, but before long warm hands are peeling me away from her, and people are loading her onto a manual stretcher; the kind you carry between two people.</p>
<p>I stumble after them, following them the mile and a half down the hill and into the parking lot, where an ambulance waits beside my mothers blindingly bright yellow moped.</p>
<p>They put mom in first, then wave me in before closing the door and driving off. The overhead lights hurt my eyes, the whites of the inside of the ambulance all too bright. The sirens are loud and jarring, echoing in my head, and my hands are shaking too much to dig out my sound-blocking headphones so I slap them over my ears and shake. It smells like disinfectant. It burns my nose and hurts my throat, sitting heavy on my tongue. The seat is hard metal and sends a shock of pain up my spine. Before me, smeared with mud with a series of monitors being hooked up to her as I watch, my mother is unconscious on a stretcher, and my world is ending.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And the award for “Best One-Liners in the Comments Section” for chapter two (which I just made up) goes to Chaotic-Dawn for the following phrases about Terra that made me go Absolutely Bonkers:<br/>1) Terra a day keeps the doctor away.<br/>2) I mean, who wouldn’t do anything for that sweet hunk.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Same Day: Tuesday, August 10th</strong>
</p><p>Hospitals are weird.</p><p>I understand I am making this assumption having been inside a grand total of one hospital in my entire life — Canard Municipal Hospital — but according to pop culture it is a justified critique. The chairs have cushions, but you can feel the wood through them like you’re sitting on paper. There are candy vending machines, but they all take quarters, and no one carries quarters any more. All the carpets are the same generic “aquamarine with blue and red spots” pattern that makes you start to doubt if reality is real or if you’re just stuck in hell. At the very least the lights were dimmed at some point and I can take off my sunglasses without feeling like my face is dying. Squinting at everything starts to pinch after a while. Sometime through the night my anxiety decided to take a break, and now I’m just dissociating in the waiting room.</p><p>I wonder if the employees can smell the ammonia or if they’re just used to it.</p><p>There’s been no news from the doctors. It’s been hours. I’ve been hopping through wikipedia again, jumping from article to article. It’s like I’ve unplugged from reality like it’s the Matrix and I’m just… stewing in something that isn’t anything.</p><p>Almost Toast, but Almost Flooded.</p><p>The air feels like water on my tongue, but it’s not moist. My skin is wet from cold sweat. Everything is clean and cold and someone gave me a blanket, but blankets only work if your body produces heat. A nurse gave me handwarmers at some point. I was an absolute <em>genius</em> and decided to shove them in my pockets, forgot about them, and when I went to use the restroom found they had burned little red spots into my legs and now they itch. Of course I’m so messed up that I forget I run at a cool 96° and those things burn me.</p><p>Long after the sun goes down my phone buzzes in my hand, the screen jumping from wikipedia to the phone app.</p><p>
  <strong>Paine Yeo Calling<br/>Answer | Reject</strong>
</p><p>Tapping the little green icon, I accept the call and bring it to my face. “Hey,” I whisper, voice hoarse.</p><p>“<em>Where are you? It’s like… 11:15. I’ve been sitting outside your place knocking for ages. All your lights are out. What’s going on?”</em></p><p>Should I tell them? Wait, no, of course I should tell them. “I’m at the hospital,” I manage to say before my stomach lurches. Oh god.</p><p>Oh, god, no. No, no, no.</p><p>My gag reflex is twitching, and a pressure hangs in my throat, increasing. <em>Increasing.</em></p><p>“<em>- everything ok-</em>”</p><p>Pulling the phone away, I jab my finger into the button to end the call, jamming my finger on the glass as I sprint to the bathroom, blanket falling off my shoulders and leaving my bag behind. My shoulder slams into the door, forcing it open as I shove my phone in my back pocket.</p><p>I fall into a stall without grace and lose what remains of the jerky we had in the park.</p><p>Fuck, I haven’t even eaten since then. This isn’t just anxiety; it’s false hypoglycemia. I’m fucked up. I’m fucked up so bad right now. My body is telling me to eat. <em>Eat</em>. You can’t go this long without food. Don’t you <em>dare</em> starve yourself again.</p><p>My skin is so cold the toilet feels warm. A body that usually doesn’t sweat is slick with it, palms shaky against the plastic lid. My face hurts. My stomach hurts. My chest hurts.</p><p>I retch again, but all that comes out is bile; a yellow so bright it might as well be my mother's moped.</p><p>When my body runs out of things to push out, I rise to my feet and go to wash my hands up to my elbows. I rinse my mouth twice. I wash my face and use a small mountain of paper towels to clean up and flush the toilet. I leave the bathroom before pulling out my phone.</p><p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>WTH<br/>U can’t just tell me ur in the hosp n hanf out m<br/>Hang up.*<br/>Aqua<br/>hey<br/>HEY<br/>pick up ur phn<br/>hey<br/>heyahafyheahhfksjdlkfjsd<br/>HEY PICK UP YOUR PHONE</em>
</p><p>There’s more. I don’t bother to read them. Instead I start typing a reply.</p><p>
  <em>Got sick. Stoma</em>
</p><p>No. No, I don’t want to say this.</p><p>
  <em>Hey, sorry I hung u</em>
</p><p>I’m not sorry. I’m not going to lie.</p><p>Glancing out the window, then around the room, I note the “no phone calls” sign and snap a photo. Going back to the texting app, I type in my reply, then attach it.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Can’t be on the phone right now. Mom’s in the ER. She fell on our hike this morning.<br/>Not supposed to take phone calls in the lobby. [Photo Attachment]</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>Fell? How? Y in Hosp?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>She’s 78. Falls happen. Gotta make sure nothing is wrong.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>Did she brk hr hip or smth?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>I'm not sure. Still waiting for news.<br/>This is normal for people her age.</em>
</p><p>Maybe if I phrase it like it’s nothing it’ll feel like nothing.</p><p>My bag is right where I left it, along with my blanket. I curl up in it, pulling the corners until my head pops out from the top like a burrito. Toyoguchi special, on sale now.</p><p>Gotta get to a happy place.</p><p>Time passes in utter silence. Occasionally the radio in the nurse’s station crackles, a barely audible voice filling the room for a bare second to say, “Toilet flooded on floor two, room eight.”</p><p>Then, a few minutes later, “Toilet flooded on floor two, room three.”</p><p>Air blows through a vent overhead, and my hair has long since dried but it feels weird and stiff and clumpy. There’s a coating of grime and mud and sweat on my skin. My clothes feel like they were left in the washer after the spin cycle for two days before being pulling out in a stiff, crinkly, musty mess. I want to clean all of it. To cleanse it. I want to soak my skin in sanitizer.</p><p>And I’m so-</p><p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Wednesday, August 11th</strong>
</p><p>- cold.</p><hr/><p>An older woman comes in a while later, donning a white coat and carrying a clipboard. The sun is peeking through the windows and I’m shivering in a ball on the cheap hospital chairs that make me wish I were curled up in a pile of gravel. That, at least, would make me go numb after a while.</p><p>“Aqua Toyoguchi?” she calls into the room, looking pointedly at me.</p><p>Rising quickly to my feet, I grab my bag and half sprint over to her, staring down at the tiny, plump woman with dark hair. Silver glasses are propped up on her nose.</p><p>“Ms. Toyoguchi?” she asks.</p><p>“That’s me,” I answer, voice breaking.</p><p>“I’m Dr. Kadowaki. I’ve been looking after your mother’s condition for the last few months.” Months? “Your mother is stable, but still unconscious.”</p><p>Stable. <em>Stable</em>?<em> Condition</em>? What the fuck? What’s- No. Jesus Christ. <em>Months</em>?!</p><p>Hi, my name is Aqua Toyoguchi and I have absolutely <em>no motherfucking idea what is happening right now</em>. “‘Condition,’” I quote softly, trying to keep the rising heat in my throat out of my voice. “What do you mean by ‘condition?’”</p><p>Dr. Kadowaki’s lips purse, and she shakes her head slowly. “Due to the sensitive nature of the information, I cannot share any more with you without her explicit consent. As things stand, your mother is stable. She is unlikely to be conscious for several more hours. This would be a good time for you to go home, get some sleep, and take care of yourself.”</p><p>It takes a moment to understand what Dr. Kadowaki is saying. Go home? Sleep? But I’ve been here all night. I need…</p><p>I need food. I need to be clean. I need sleep. I can’t effectively be here for mom if I run myself into the ground.</p><p>Nodding along, I thank Dr. Kadowaki for her time, then begin to gather my things. When I turn to leave I expect her to be gone; to have retreated further into the small hospital. Instead she watches me from the arch leading out of the waiting room. Her arms are crossed over her chest, bottom lip held between white teeth as her face shifts to follow me.</p><p>Rising to my feet, things in hand, I ask, “How bad is it?”</p><p>“I’m not at leave to tell you,” is her low reply.</p><p>I need to know <em>I need to know <strong>I need to know</strong></em>.</p><p>I say nothing.</p><p>I leave.</p><p>Thankfully my bus pass is still in my bag. I’m wandering around in a fog. I catch the wrong bus twice, and eventually manage to find the right one, the morning bus driver nodding to me on my way in.</p><p>I’m awake and then I’m not and then Clarabelle’s — the driver’s — hand is on my shoulder, shaking me gently. “Sweetie, it’s your stop,” she whispers. Her earrings jangle as she pulls away, dark pigtails trailing over her shoulders the way she’s kept them since I was a kid. Her skin is a deep black with pale splotches of vitiligo against her cheeks, nose, forehead, and hands. I always did like vitiligo. The contrast looks cool. I feel like if I ever touched her skin it would be soft, like those spotted cows. She looks so soft. So gentle.</p><p>“There’s no one on the bus, dear,” she whispers, “and you don’t look too good. Would you like me to take you all the way home?” Clarabelle is hitting close to sixty with a big, smiling mouth that makes you feel like everything she does is for your sake.</p><p>But I can get home. “I’ll be fine,” I say, pushing myself up from my seat, only to find my body is stiff and awkward. My back pinches from dehydration and my head spins.</p><p>I’m back in my seat before I can process what happened.</p><p>Clarabelle gives me one of those sadder smiles and says, “‘Fine’ isn’t a word I would use to describe the woman I’m seeing right now. Besides, you’re always saying that thing at that class of yours — we’re women; we should help each other out. If we don’t, who will?”</p><p>Having my own words thrown back at me is a bit… It’s cool, actually. But I wave her off. “It’s only five blocks. I’ll be fine.”</p><p>She stares at me for a long moment, then shakes her head. “You stay right where you are, young lady. I’m going to take you home.”</p><p>I want to protest, but in seconds Clarabelle has gone back to her seat and closed the door. The engine revs as much as it does — electric, so quiet — and she turns into my neighborhood. There are a few kids running around, and they pay no heed to bus six breaking from its route to enter the suburb. It’s their summer vacation and everything is right with the world.</p><p>Clarabelle parks the bus directly in front of my house, and then she’s up, offering her arm for me to take.</p><p>For a moment I tell myself that I’m not taking it out of necessity, but of curiosity. And I was right. Her skin is soft to the touch. Practically plush. “Your skin is really nice,” I say dumbly. “The texture. I like it.”</p><p>Her laugh is light and amused. “Once you get close to my age, you’ll start going soft too, dearie. One of the benefits of old age.”</p><p>We’re at the front door before long and I’m reaching for… for my <em>keys</em>, but I can’t- My hands are <em>shaking</em>. How long have they been shaking? I can’t-</p><p>My keys slip from my grip, hitting the welcome mat with the high, clattering clap-screech of metal on metal.</p><p>Clarabelle bends to grab them without comment, picking them up off the ground and holding them up for me to inspect. The small rainbow keychain is in full view. “Which of these is your house key, dearie?” she asks.</p><p>“S- Silver,” I say, teeth beginning to chatter.</p><p>Oh. I’m cold.</p><p>I’m… I’m so <em>cold</em>.</p><p>She lets me into my own house, then hangs the keys on a hook we usually reserve for coats. “I’d stay longer, but I’m on the clock,” she says, hand reaching out to slowly touch my arm, rubbing gently through the fabric of my hoodie. “Make sure to warm yourself up. Take care of yourself, dearie. No one else can do it better.” Her hand pulls away, and she closes the door behind her as she leaves.</p><hr/><p>I call Paine from the bathtub, up to my neck in hot, soapy water after popping a hydroxyzine and eating half a box of mac and cheese with hot dogs. I’m overfull and nauseous, no longer able to eat a full box like I did when I was younger, before my stomach shrunk and the damage was done because I'm an <em>idiot</em> and… And I can't think about this right now. My phone sits on the toilet, ringing on speakerphone before it clicks twice and Paine’s groggy voice comes through, echoing off the bathroom tiles.</p><p>“<em>H’llo?</em>” they groan.</p><p>“Hey babe,” I say, the word feeling awkward and gross on my tongue. “Sorry to call you so early. I just got home.”</p><p>“<em>It’s</em>…” A pause. A shuffle. “<em>Babe, it’s almost 7AM. Why are you just now getting home? Is your mom okay?</em>”</p><p>“She’s stable.” It’s a dodge, but it’s not a lie. “I wanted to call to let you know I’ve run into a snag and won’t be able to move in for a bit. Family stuff. I want to stick around.”</p><p>“<em>Family stuff? Aqua- We were going to move you in <strong>yesterday</strong>. You can’t just cancel on me the day <strong>after</strong> with some flimsy family excuse. I need to know why.</em>”</p><p>What?</p><p>Flimsy?</p><p>I...</p><p>I want to scream.</p><p><em>Flimsy</em>? My mother is in the <em>hospital</em>. What the <em>fuck</em> is so flimsy about that?</p><p>But I stop.</p><p><em>Stop</em>.</p><p>Our families are different. Paine isn’t close to their parents. Paine cut them out. This is as close to a cultural difference as we’re going to get, and they’re younger than me and haven’t run into shit like this as much. I’m older. I can understand this. I can <em>explain</em> this.</p><p>I can be calm.</p><p>“My mom means a lot to me.” Maybe my voice is too slow. Too deliberate. Am I coming across as condescending right now? “Things are a little messy right now, and moving is stressful. For now it’s best that we wait a bit so you don’t think-”</p><p>“<em>So I don’t think you’re saying yes and agreeing blindly to everything I suggests while somehow avoiding actually doing it, sidestepping every move forward in this relationship with perfectly timed, extremely specific events that relieve you of all responsibility without making it your fault?</em>”</p><p>Hey, so, what the fuck? “Excuse me?”</p><p>“<em>This happens every time.</em>”</p><p>“You think I’m <em>lying</em> about my <em>mom</em> being in the <em>hospital</em>?”</p><p>They’re quiet.</p><p>Heat rises up into my chest with a vengeance. Anger. I’m <em>angry</em>.</p><p>No.</p><p>I’m <em>furious</em>.</p><p>“<em>I’m sorry.</em>” It’s belated, but Paine actually sounds sincere.</p><p>Nausea. There’s so much nausea.</p><p>“<em>I’m so sorry. I’m tired. I’m confused. Kind of angry from the delays. I took it out on you. I’m sorry.</em>”</p><p>Fuck, I can’t deal with this right now. “Look, I’ll call you when things settle down, okay? I need to take care of stuff on my end.”</p><p>“<em>... Okay. I love you.</em>”</p><p>I don’t want to say it back, but they’re already mad enough right now, so I choke out a tired, “I love you, too. I’ll talk to you later.”</p><p>A few seconds pass. Silence. Then, giving a low “<em>boop</em>” my phone’s screen lights up to show the call ending, then goes dark.</p><hr/><p>I lay in bed for four hours.</p><p>I wouldn’t call it sleeping.</p><p>There’s a ringing in my ears; a pressure in my head. I feel slow. I feel muted. I feel wrong. Nauseous. Hungry. Overfull. There's a gap in my body where my stomach should be and it's begging to to filled. Food would fill it on a good day.</p><p>Today is not a good day.</p><p>Today I've already eaten and the gap is only real in my mind. If I try to fill it any more I'll overflow.</p><p>Possibly in more ways than one.</p><p>After four hours I push myself up in bed, switch on my lamp, and flatten my palms against my ears. I can hear my blood pulsing through my body; whistling. Shifting my fingers to point straight out, I drum them against the back of my head, the heavy thump-thump-thump drowning out the world, my problems, and the whine of my own bodily functions: the beat of my heart; the whine of my blood; the creak of muscle, bone, and sinew as I breath and shift and adjust ever so slightly.</p><p>After a good forty-five seconds I pull my hands away.</p><p>The ringing is gone.</p><p>The pressure is gone.</p><p>For now.</p><p>When I stand the pressure is back. I feel weak. Moist. Cold. My palms are warm and slick with sweat, telling me more accurately than any thermometer that I have my version of a fever.</p><p>Grabbing some cold meds from the kitchen, I mix the powder in a mug of hot water and struggle to drink them while catching up with shows on my phone.</p><p><em>Finish glass in ten minutes,</em> the instructions say.</p><p>It takes me forty.</p><p>After the mug is drained and sitting in the dishwasher, I grab my bag and head back out. There’s been a shift change, and Goofy is running the bus when I get on.</p><p>“Good morning Ms. Toyo-goo-chi,” he greets, accent as thick as always.</p><p>Despite my mood, my weakness, my general loss of my grip on reality… I smile. “Morning Mr. Goof,” I greet back warmly. Taking a seat near the front, I lean forward and ask, “How are you doing?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m as right as rain today. I just got back from fishin’ with my son this morning.” He breathes a sigh. “I sure am going to miss that boy when he goes off to college in the fall. He’s been my whole world for years.”</p><p>“Has he decided on a major yet?”</p><p>“Hoo, boy. You know, I think he’s having trouble deciding. But I know he wants to know more about music. I think he’s afraid he won’t be any good, though.”</p><p>I laugh. That sounds like Max. “He won’t know until he tries.”</p><p>There’s a moment of silence, then Goofy murmurs, “I’d ask how you’re doing Ms. Toyo-goo-chi, but you look to me like I shouldn’t be askin’ you that today.”</p><p>Am I wearing a sign on my face or something?</p><p>“If I may say, I hope your day improves,” he says in that sweet way older, sincere men do when they want to reassure you.</p><p>For a while it works. I feel lighter. I feel like I’m not about to vomit if I move wrong. After we get to the transit center I switch busses, and I get to the hospital before long… and it comes back. Popping a hydroxyzine and washing it down at a water fountain, I step up to the receptionist as the vibration in my hands subsides. “I’m looking for Alte Toyoguchi.”</p><hr/><p>Machines are beeping. Air is hissing. Something occasionally gurgles.</p><p>Mom is asleep.</p><p>Her belongings are bundled in a bag on the far side of the room. A fresh pair of clothes sits on the counter beside them, folded neatly. They’re her loose sweater and pencil skirt combo she likes so much, since I figured she might want an ego boost on the way home. To feel neat and put together. As things stand, she’s up to her shoulders in blankets, and her wig has been removed. Instead they’ve covered her hair with a little cap to preserve her modesty. I’m tempted to look it up when I see this — why she wears wigs, and why it’s a respected enough practice that the hospital would have a method for covering hair, and why it would extend to her.</p><p>But I want to hear it from her.</p><p>It’s an hour before she wakes. An hour before her eyes slide open and her face turns to me, lips parting in a weak, “Hey there, baby girl.”</p><p>“Hey mom. How’re you feeling?”</p><p>She groans, arms lifting from the bed for a short moment before shifting back. “Darn IVs,” she sighs. Bracing her hands against the bed, she shuffles up against the pillows, then relaxes. “That’s better. I’m doing just fine, baby girl. Just fine.”</p><p>“Don’t lie to me.” I want to be firm. I want to convince her that I’m a little angry. That things will be okay — that <em>I</em> will be okay — if she just tells me the truth.</p><p>It just comes out scared.</p><p>Mom turns away, facing the ceiling.</p><p>We sit. The silence stretches. I’m not used to this. I’m not used to her being so quiet. I’m not used to her not rushing around the room, waving her arms and being melodramatic to get a laugh. This frail looking, quiet woman laying in front of me has had her energy stripped away, layer by layer, and I’m looking at someone who both is and isn’t my mother.</p><p>There’s a clock in the corner and it’s analog. It’s started to yellow with age; the kind with a face that ticks far too loud in quiet rooms. The kind that drove me nuts as a kid before they were all eventually replaced with digital clocks. It doesn’t drive me nuts, now; it makes me feel young, stupid, and unprepared for this. I watch the second hand, then the minute hand, and when half an hour has passed my mother takes a long, deep breath, and speaks.</p><p>“I have three months.”</p><p>My world is ending.</p><hr/><p>They discharge mom a few hours later, around the time my hydroxyzine wears off. I hurl twice in the public restroom before we catch the only taxi in town home.</p><hr/><p>When we get home, I rush around the taxi to let my mom out, lifting her out of the seat. She’s practically limp, and after a bit of arguing I bend down and pick her up bridal style, carrying her towards the house.</p><p>Her being heavy shouldn’t be a relief to me, but it is.</p><p>As I’m setting her down to unlock the door, she motions toward the driveway. “My moped is still at the park.”</p><p>Unlocking the door, I shake my head. “I’ll ask Terra and Leon to pick it up later.”</p><p>“Such good boys,” she whispers, staggering forward.</p><p>Arms coming around her before she can fall, I assist her into the house.</p><p>“Thanks, baby girl. My legs are so rubbery right now.”</p><p>I want to say something. I want to yell or scream or cry. My entire body is vibrating, and I know she can feel it, and I just want to curl up in a ball in the bathtub and take another hydroxyzine.</p><p>But if I take it too consistently the doctor said it could mess up my heart.</p><p>We stagger to her room together after I kick the door shut, and only after I get her up to her shoulders in blankets, practically limp against her bed, do I step away. “Call me if you need me, mom,” I say, pointedly placing her phone on the pillow at her side, dragging the cord over to charge it.</p><p>I step out of the room and go to the kitchen. Blindly, I shove my hands in the sink and do the last of the dishes. They go into the dishwasher, which I start. Then I do laundry. I wipe down the counters. Vacuum.</p><p>Clean. Clean and drown it all out. Drown it out.</p><p>After I run out of things to clean, I grab mom's moped keys from her bag of belongings, pull on a hoodie and my leather jacket, and hit the pavement.</p><p>Two blocks at a sprint later, Terra’s house looks picturesque in the rain. I grip the handrail tight as I jog up the steps to his porch. The wood is slick, and my feet threaten to fly out beneath me more than once, but if I stop moving I might just drop. As soon as I step into the doorway I reach for the key holder and let myself in.</p><p>My hands have finally stopped shaking, it seems. Maybe it was the running.</p><p>“Terra?” I call. The lights are out, but there’s the slick sound of-</p><p>“Shit. <em>Shit</em>.”</p><p>I’ve interrupted something.</p><p>Moving to the dining room, I take a seat and wait, slightly mortified.</p><p>There’s a shuffle. Grunted swears. Before long there’s the creak of a door opening, then running water.</p><p>Terra comes out before long, flushed, sweaty, and more than a little exasperated. “Try to give a guy some… warning…” He freezes in the entryway to the dining room, mouth dropping open for a moment before he drops into the seat opposite me and asks, “What happened?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” are the words out of my mouth, which is great because it’s true and much more concise than anything rolling around in my head right now. “Could you- Could you do me a favor? Could you get my mom’s moped from the hiking trail? It’s in the parking lot. You would need Leon to bring it over here, considering… everything. CC limits. Motorcycle endorsement stuff.”</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll throw him a text and see if- That would be around practice time. We probably shouldn’t have practice today.”</p><p>Oh shit. Practice. “We can still-”</p><p>“You look like shit.”</p><p>Whelp.</p><p>He leans back in his chair until he’s balancing on the two rear legs, head tilted up towards the ceiling. He’s pointedly not looking at me, the way he does when he knows I’m wearing thin. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want a distraction?”</p><p>“I want… to go home.” It’s a relief to say it. As much as it freaks me out, I want to be with mom right now. Reaching between us, I drop the keys to the table. “Leon will probably be able to figure out which of those goes in the ignition.”</p><p>“If he can’t, there’s always trial and error,” Terra jokes.</p><p>Despite my anxiety — everything that’s happening, the all-encompassing fatigue from the hydroxyzine, the nausea heavy and bitter climbing up the sides of my stomach — I laugh. It hurts a little, but I laugh.</p><p>And then I cry.</p><p>I leave half an hour later, after two cups of hot cocoa and Terra bundling me in blankets on the couch as my body temperature plummets through the floor. Once I’m out on the sidewalk I’m sleepy and warm and all cried out. By the time I reach home I feel human again. Then…</p><p>Then I step into silence. The front door creaks open, rain pattering behind and overhead as a pervasive white noise. Lights are out; air conditioning is off. Closing the door behind me, knob cold and lock loud, it becomes my world. It’s too much at first, then too little. I feel like a ghost as I pass through the living room, reaching out to touch counters and walls in search of balance, then dragging fingers across picture frames and knick-knacks in the hope that I might absorb the memories like they’re some kind of energy. It would be nice to do the haunting, someday, instead of being the one who’s haunted.</p><p>I wonder what my ghosts would say if I asked them why they stuck around.</p><p>Mom looks up at me from her bed as I step into the doorway. Her curly hair has slipped out of the little cap they gave her at the hospital. The blankets are tucked under her arms, fingers fiddling with the tassels at the edge of the fabric. “Hey baby girl,” she whispers to me.</p><p><em>I have three months</em>.</p><p>“Hey mom,” I say back. “Sorry for leaving.”</p><p>She smiles at me, a laugh behind her pursed lips. “Thank you for coping and coming back so quickly. You’ve always been so good about that.”</p><p>Taking a seat at the edge of her bed, I sink into the mattress and ask, “Do you need anything? Need to change clothes, or get to the bathroom?” This is uncharted territory for us, but I’m not afraid to take the first step.</p><p>She sighs, stares down at the blanket, then shifts. “First I’d like to get into something a little more comfortable, and then I’d like to talk to you about some things.”</p><p>“What kind of things?”</p><p>“What you can expect,” she says lightly, like this isn’t the end of the world. Like she isn’t dying.</p><p>It takes us longer than it should to get her into pajamas, and then she looks as she always does before bed: relaxed; serene; maybe a little drunk. Her bed things are printed with rubber ducks, and she quacks to lighten the mood as we pull them on. As long as I’ve known her, she’s always been good at duck noises.</p><p>
  <em>The three secrets to a good animal impersonation are a good frame of reference, practice, and the unparallelled determination to confuse the absolute <strong>shit</strong> out of random strangers.</em>
</p><p>She has me lay down with her like I used to when I was younger, just low enough to fit into the curve of her arm. But this time it isn’t a nightmare. This time the fear is real, and it’s going to take her away from me.</p><p>“You’ll get my medical records after everything is done and you’ve had a chance to settle. I’ve already talked to a lawyer and everything is in writing. You deserve to know if this might happen to you, but I have my right to privacy, as well.”</p><p>It’s all I can do to sit quietly as she says the next part.</p><p>“You are not to be involved in anything health related or be privy to any information I don’t personally give you.”</p><p>My heart is going nuts. Is she telling me to be a stranger? What is going on?</p><p>“People will be coming in to help me over the next few months. They will help me take my medication. They will help me with meals, dressing, and bathing. They will be around at all times of the day to make sure I have as much freedom and dignity as I can, and they will take care of my needs and fulfill my requests when the time comes.” She takes another breath, long and tense. “Do you have any questions?”</p><p>Yes. No. Everything. Nothing. But only one is important. “Why can’t I know?”</p><p>Another breath, then, “I don’t want you to know how much pain I’m in.”</p><p>Silence stretches after this, and then she reaches for me. Her hand looks so pale next to my arm.</p><p>We curl together on the bed, like we used to when I was young. Her hands find my hair, and she whispers, “I just want you to be ready when the time comes.”</p><p>Ready.</p><p>Her entire life, she's been trying to make me ready. For school. For work. For taxes. For adulthood.</p><p>For a life without her.</p><p>They're stuck on loop, now; all the times people would go on and on about parents giving up so much for their children. They'd talk about time and life choices. Clubs given up for parent teacher conferences; self-betterment for math homework; new clothes for diapers and bigger shoes.</p><p>No one talks about giving up a peaceful death. You’re not expected to give up your death. That’s not the realm of a parent. Of a mother. You’re still allowed a little liberty and choice.</p><p>But she’s giving me this.</p><p>I want to thank her, but I'm afraid of what she'll say. What will come up. What will be said about my… other parent.</p><p>So I don't.</p><p>She pets my hair and I stay silent, fingers twined with her free hand as she hums another soft melody from my childhood. One if the ones I'm not allowed to know but memorized anyways.</p><p>As her voice grows weaker, softer, I feel myself growing heavy. Tired. And as I find myself falling to sleep, I remember a detail of our relationship that both comforts and terrifies me.</p><p>She’s not just my mother.</p><p>She’s my best friend.</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Thursday, August 12th</strong>
</p><p>Working on hydroxyzine in the fucking pits, but at least I’m vertical. Beats sulking in bed.</p><p>Actually, maybe I should change the schedule of availability for the studio. I could work a longer day and have three days off a week. People have been asking about later classes, and the Sunday bookings are smaller than the rest. People only sign up for those if the rest are full.</p><p>Three days off a week sounds nice.</p><p>I’ll look at the books later and ask Belle what she thinks.</p><p>Lunch is chicken noodle soup and cold medicine after another semblance of a fever and sweats hits me around eleven. Can’t get hit by this shit right now.</p><p>As I’m sipping from the cup of microwaved salt and noodles, my phone buzzes six times against the padded floor.</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>You up for running errands with me and Ven after work?<br/>Also please don’t freak out on me tonight.<br/>Pretty please.<br/>It’s my birthday.<br/>I’m allowed to be an idiot.</em>
</p><p>Moving my finger over the keyboard, I respond with all the fluidity of a sleep deprived woman on antipsychotics and cold meds.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Why could I anger\</em>
</p><p>Eloquent.</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>You okay?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Ask the cold meds. I think I’m catching something. Great Timing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>You gonna be okay for the party tonight? I can always meet Paine later.</em>
</p><p>Paine would riot.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Let’s do those errands and then I’ll decide.</em>
</p><p>When no immediate reply comes, I tap into the main menu to see other missed texts.</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Did Terra get hotter since I left? I feel like the human race is missing out on some Choice Dick here.</em>
</p><p>Living up to the name in my phone. Classic Ventus. Typing out a reply, I place my phone on the floor and watch for replies as I take another sip of my soup and reply.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Have you actually seen his dick before?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>No. Why do you ask?<br/>Wait. Wait, is it weird?<br/>Terra says his dick is weird.</em>
</p><p>What?</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>wat</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Yeah. He’s getting all shy about it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>are you asking Terra about his dick<br/>why are you asking Terra about his dick</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>He’s saying it’s a weird shape.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>weird shape? Is it barbed or something? Or like<br/>Botched circumcision?<br/>I kinda need to know, now.<br/>This started off ironic but now i’m curious</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>He says pretty much all of his partners commented on it before he stopped the whole dating thing<br/>Apparently it’s uneven and like shaped like a triangle? Like a bent cone?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>A BENT CONE?!</em>
</p><p>Hey, hey, hey, hey, <em>hey</em>, what the<em> fuck</em>?</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>YEAH I’M SUPER CURIOUS<br/>I mean I’d never sleep with Terra but like<br/>And I don’t want to treat him like an object<br/>But we’ve known each other for like 30 years and I feel like I should be privy to the fact that he has — and I quote — a “weird ass traffic cone that someone twisted sideways” for a dick.<br/>He knows I’m sending all of this to you by the way.<br/>I'm reading this all aloud and he's laughing at me.<br/>But also like I usually don’t care about my friend’s genitalia<br/>I do Not<br/>But this is a fucking rabbit hole?!?!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Hey man what the fuck is that description</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>I don’t even know man<br/>Just like<br/>I have questions, and they’re all extremely personal and invasive</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Twisted Traffic Cone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>But I want answers dammit</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>So Do I.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>I can’t just ask to look at his erect junk, tho<br/>Like<br/>We’ve been best friends for thirty years<br/>We’re firmly in the Sibling-Friend-Zone<br/>I don’t want to fuck this guy<br/>Like he’s Hot like the Fucking Sun<br/>But No<br/>And I realize I’m known as the Resident Slut<br/>because everyone knows that in research outposts in Antarctica they distribute 16,500 condoms for free every year to the researchers<br/>But like Internet is spotty as fuck in Antarctica and those heaters can only work so well in a place that exists in the soft spots between 10° and -70°, okay?<br/>There’s basically nothing else to do. Like. Nothing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>So you do each other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Yes. Can’t exactly do water polo when the wind alone could kill you in like half an hour.<br/>Like, we’re not even talking about loss of limb here. Just death. Straight up death.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>This is hilarious.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Jogging isn’t even a thing outside the facility<br/>You could break off someone’s dick and use it as an ice cube if they tried.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Do you guys ever have orgies?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>You know the answer to that question.<br/>It’s warmer with more people.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>You have an interesting job.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>What happens in Antarctica stays in Antarctica</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Including the DNA evidence?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Especially the DNA evidence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Any update on Terra’s dick?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>He delved into a hidden folder on his phone to show me a dick pic and he’s not wrong.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Unfair. I Need To See.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Terra says he’s not sending you a dick pic.<br/>Apparently he has standards.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Since when?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Since now, I think.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Shy baby boy. Shy baby 40 year old boy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>He’s deleting all the photos, now. He’s saying he shouldn’t even have them any more.<br/>"All I have left from that life is regrets and dick pics.” Yo man this dude is sad.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Fair. I gotta get back to work.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Go forth. Teach little old ladies how to kick purse snatchers and nazis in the balls. See you after work.</em>
</p><p>Gladly.</p><hr/><p>I notice them out front in the Beemobile just as the last of my students have left the studio. It’s a relief to see them and it takes all I have not to sprint out to the van. Instead I lock the doors, secure the till in the safe in what passes for a staff room, set the alarm, and let myself out. Twisting the key in the lock four times until it stops, I turn back to the van.</p><p>
  <em>Diazzz Beekeeping.</em>
</p><p>Going around the rear of the van, I yank the doors open.</p><p>“You look terrible,” Ventus says from the passenger seat.</p><p>“I feel terrible,” I fire back, climbing in and closing the doors. The seat is stiff, but the cushions have a good amount of give to them that’s on the firm side of comfortable. Pulling on my seatbelt, I buckle myself in and adjust the strap. “So. Errands. Where to first?”</p><p>“Community hall, or whatever they’re calling it these days,” Terra says from the front seat. The engine revs and he motions between his and Ventus’ seat as the tinny sounds of the stereo flood the van.</p><p>Ventus reaches for the controls, music fading to a reasonable volume. After he leans around his chair to look at me. “How was work?”</p><p>“Long and tiring,” I say as the van pulls away from the street. “Why are we going to the Agricultural Hall?”</p><p>“Community Hall,” Terra says just as Ventus goes, “Town Center.”</p><p>We arrive at the Agricultural/Community Hall/Town Center within a few minutes — though we probably could have jogged here faster, ‘cause Terra drives like an octogenarian who wants to outlive the economy — to find a big sign that reads <em>Canard Cultural Center</em>.</p><p>“Hey, we were all wrong,” Ventus laughs.</p><p>Terra takes a spot by a particularly sad looking bush, and as we all climb out of the van he says, “Remember; you guys aren’t allowed to freak out on me. It’s my birthday.”</p><p>Hey, Terra, what the fuck?</p><p>“So why are we here?” Ventus asks, stepping quickly up to Terra’s side as they head toward the center.</p><p>I jog to catch up, settling in just to the left of the men.</p><p>“Five year AA chip,” is the cool reply.</p><p>Holy shit! “Dude, why would we flip out on you for that? That’s awesome!”</p><p>Ventus leans backward to look over at me around Terra, which is hilarious because he’s a good half a foot shorter. He looks like a kid whispering secrets to his mom at the zoo. “Maybe he doesn’t want a scene or something?”</p><p>As the air conditioning of the Cultural Center slaps us in the face as soon as we enter the facility, Terra goes straight for the info booth. “Hey, picking up my AA chip.”</p><p>The woman — girl? She looks young — behind the counter smiles nervously and asks, “Name?”</p><p>“Eduardo Moreno-Diaz.”</p><p>She turns, stepping out of sight for a moment before returning with a small envelope. “Five years. Congratulations,” she says, voice stiff.</p><p>“Thanks,” he says as he takes the envelope. Waving her off, he heads back towards us, holding up the envelope. “Okay, guys. This was the easy part. Remember; you’re not allowed to freak out on me.”</p><p>“Freak out on you for what?”</p><p>We head back to the car.</p><hr/><p>Auron’s Liquor is located in a small strip-mall at the edge of town, and when Terra parks in front of it I just about riot.</p><p>“Didn’t you literally just get your five year chip?” I ask just as Ventus says, “It’s his choice.”</p><p>Unbuckling my seatbelt, I step behind the two front seats, taking hold of them and staring down at Terra. He looks calm. He looks… disappointed, really. “You’re really just going to voluntarily pitch yourself off the wagon?”</p><p>“We’ll talk about this later, okay?” Terra says before stepping out of the van.</p><p>Rushing out the back doors, I close them and follow.</p><p>Terra is already inside by the time I get there.</p><p>“Hey Aqua.” Auron himself is running the register today, an embarrassingly familiar man with salt-and-pepper hair and an old-fashioned pair of narrow sunglasses hanging from his nose. He’s older — around his sixties or so — but from the neck down you wouldn’t think it.</p><p>Whelp, not following that line of thought.</p><p>I find Terra in the vodkas, a bottle of gin already in hand.</p><p>“Look-”</p><p>“It’s my decision. I’ll tell you why later,” he says, selecting a bottle from the shelf and stepping around me. He walks up to the counter just as Ventus walks in and goes straight for the display of sample-sized flavored vodka.</p><p>Stepping up to him, I lean over and whisper, “He can’t be serious, can he?”</p><p>Ventus hums at this. “He’s thirty-seven. I don’t think it’s really our business to care whether or not he’s serious.” Picking through the samples, he selects a few and collects them in his left arm. There’s pumpkin spice, watermelon, apple fritter, and a number of other hyper-sweet flavors that he’s piling like the end of the world is approaching.</p><p>There’s the crinkle of paper bags, and then Terra is behind us, purchases in hand. “You getting those, Ven?”</p><p>“Yeah. If you can drink, that means so can I,” he says, then brings the sample bottles to the checkout counter.</p><p>Before long we’re back in the van and Terra is handing me his five year chip.</p><p>I take it, not knowing how to feel.</p><p>It’s blue, with gold accents around the edges and words printed boldly along its border. <em>To thine own self be true</em>, it says across the front. Then, on the back, <em>God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference</em>.</p><p>The music kicks up as the engine turns over, and then we’re headed back.</p><p>We’re halfway home when Terra says, “I made a promise to myself that if I could stay five years sober then I could start drinking again when I felt ready.”</p><p>“Terra, that’s not how addiction works,” I say, because it’s <em>not</em>.</p><p>“I removed everything that was making me an alcoholic from my life,” he continues, voice light.</p><p>“That’s-”</p><p>“This is my decision,” he interrupts, and his voice is soft and low and…</p><p>And I don’t know what to do.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Pissing Contests</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Same Day, Thursday, August 12th</strong>
</p><p>Terra stops by the grocery store on the way home and picks up a case of beer. It’s the local brew kind, toting itself as “no preservatives, no corn syrup, gluten free” and a ton of other little ribbons on the label. It taunts me from where he sets it in the back, dimly lit by what light filters in from the front windows.</p><p>I stay in my seat and keep quiet.</p><p>Eventually he starts up the van. It’s a few minutes before we arrive. Bags are carried. Steps are taken. The gin and vodka are stored above the sink. Cardboard is ripped open and half the beers are lined against the wall of his fridge, nearly flush to large bags of zucchini. From there we prep for the party: Terra organizes the fridge, Ventus sets out baskets, and I wipe everything down. It all feels so normal. Our normal places. Our normal roles… but now there’s alcohol. And Terra is going to drink again.</p><p>At one point my hydroxyzine finally wears off and I excuse myself to sit in the bathroom as the first of the tears start to hit… and then they stop. I wash my face. I wipe away the salt and the stiff tracks from my eyes to my chin before I look in the mirror, staring at red-rimmed eyes and hair that’s been touched too much, hanging limply around my face like it did before I figured out how to squint through my time blindness enough to shower regularly.</p><p>Fuck, I’m a mess.</p><p>Opening up my bag, I pull out a comb and try to get my hair to at least pretend like I’ve washed it recently. I have, but that’s not the point. That’s not what people will <em>think</em>. I tug it to the right, against the grain of the usual part in an attempt to get more volume out of it, but it won’t stay. The roots want to be flat to my head, especially now that I’ve run a comb through it, robbing whatever volume it had before I touched it. Nothing short of a shower, copious amounts of mousse, or a miracle will save me now.</p><p>There comes three quick knocks from the door, followed by a raised voice. “<em>You okay in there?</em>” Terra asks.</p><p>“Yeah,” I call back. “Just trying to fix my hair.” It’s frizzing, now. The curls are made from super-fine strands and I've only made them angry. As I try to undo the damage I’ve done, pushing the hair back down with my hands, it crackles angrily at me.</p><p>Whelp. I’m fucked.</p><p>“<em>Can I help?</em>”</p><p>Might as well.</p><p>Reaching for the door, I stare out at Terra. He looks…</p><p>He looks good.</p><p>He has no right to look this good.</p><p>I mean, it’s his birthday, but honestly, <em>fuck</em> him in the kindest, least sexual way possible.</p><p>He’s got his lighter, short-sleeve, red and orange flannel over a black, loose-necked tank that’s a little tight on him. Maybe it’s new, or it shrunk after being washed. Either way, his barrel chest and — for lack of a better word — <em>voluptuous</em> pecs stand out like a neon sign. His shorts hang just a bit loose on his hips. Not in a baggy way, but in the way that they’re just low enough that you can see the high-vis border of his no-doubt Extremely Gay brand of underwear. His socks are one of the new pairs I got him recently, being too strapped for cash to replace them himself whenever a hole wears through. His hair is styled down today. There’s no fauxhawk; just a bit of his natural volume and enough product to have it sitting low against his neck.</p><p>His grin is wide and amused as he looks me up and down and asks, “Yeah, your hair isn’t really working for your ensemble, Hermione.”</p><p>“Suck a dick.”</p><p>Stepping into the bathroom, Terra reaches for the right-most drawer and produces a small can of mousse. “Dollar store is your best friend,” he sing-songs as he pops it open and sets it on the counter, then grabs a wide-toothed comb. “Kneel so that thou canst be knighted or some bullshit like that. Sit on the toilet or something.”</p><p>A laugh shakes my stomach as I try to maneuver around to sit on the toilet.</p><p>Then he’s there, brushing my curls out — I really need to get them straightened again sometime soon — and then pulls away to rub mousse between his hands. “Keep still, Lady Froyo-Gucci.”</p><p>“Froyo-Gucci?” I snort. Toyoguchi, Froyo-Gucci. Huh.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s apparently what they call you in the doppelgänger group chat Ventus is in. You know — the lookalikes.”</p><p>I try not to laugh too much at this. “They have a <em>group chat</em>?” I ask in open disbelief. “That’s weird.”</p><p>Terra touches my hair, combing over it to spread the mousse, and oh this is nice. For all that the feel of the mousse against my skin is torture — the texture of <em>creme</em>, the crackle of it against my <em>scalp</em>, the inevitable <em>greasiness</em> that will spread to my hands whenever I play with it and the sour-bitter-sharp taste-sensation-air on my tounge when I inevitably touch my mouth that ruins every breath and every piece of food I eat after — his warm hands are gentle and just right against my head after decades of learning my boundaries and preferences.</p><p>Which I guess just boils down to “hair touches good; monkey brain appeased.”</p><p>Ooh, yes, he’s massaging my scalp. Yes, this is the stuff. This is the <em>stuff</em>. Points of pressure, moving along my skin and pushing my hair- Fuck, that’s good. A shiver goes down my spine, heat spreading up my neck and along my scalp.</p><p>Then he pulls away, the bastard, running his hands under the sink and drying them. He brings a comb through my hair after, then grabs a blow-dryer, holding it up for me. “High setting. Prepare yourself.”</p><p>“Prepared,” I say, reaching up to cover my ears.</p><p>Even with my ears covered, though, it’s loud. It’s a pressure. It’s an ache. It splits my head and echoes into my throat and behind my eyes until I adjust. Then, removing my hands, I listen to it. The roar of the hair dryer isn’t a particularly <em>nice</em> sound, but as far as white noise goes it could be worse. It sends a wash of heat over my scalp and shoulders as he lifts my hair with the comb into the stream of air. As Terra steps away, hands dropping to turn off the dryer, I shake my head. I hold open the front of my shirt, offering my cleavage to him. “Hit me.”</p><p>He shoves the blow dryer down the front of my shirt and turns it back on with a snort, giving me a hit of hot air. Ah, sweet, sweet warmth.</p><p>When it turns back off I groan as my skin quickly begins to cool. It’s uncomfortable. It’s <em>swift</em>. “No, no. Keep it on.”</p><p>“Stop whining. You can borrow a flannel. It’s also <em>literally</em> 93° out.”</p><p>“I can <em>feel</em> that storm moving in.” It’s not a lie. The breeze is cool; it feels more like 75°. I looked at the weather forecast. It’s going to <em>pour</em> the next two nights.</p><p>“We’re inside, Aqua.”</p><p>“I can still feel it,” I snort. “Besides, I won’t be warm until it’s in the hundreds. You know that.”</p><p>He laughs, taking a seat on the edge of the tub to wind up the hair dryer. “Of course, my royal ice cube.”</p><p>Rising up off the toilet, I step around his enormous legs to peek into the mirror, looking over my curls. Of course they look better. Of course I look like I had them styled. Terra’s too good at stuff like this. (Though that’s probably because he’s spent more time styling my hair than I have.)</p><p>“Did you text Paine the time and address yet?” Terra asks. He’s moved in beside me, visible in the mirror as he slides the hair dryer back into its drawer. He does it with a hand cushioning the underside before laying it gently on the towels that pad the inside of the drawer. They muffle the sounds of things that move. “It’s getting close to that time.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I agree, admittedly a bit belatedly. Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I unlock it and pop into the messaging app.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Still on for that birthday party?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>Yee. Jst need teh addrs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Cool. We're getting together now.</em>
</p><p>Plugging the address into the app, I send off the message, then follow Terra out of the bathroom. “Who else is coming today?”</p><p>“Lea and Leon, of course. Xion will come with one of them. Roxas isn’t coming because Leon is coming.”</p><p>“Of course. We can’t have the universe exploding,” I note as he cuts off. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who hates someone more than Roxas hates Leon. It’s like a force of nature. Reminds me of that thing in the Peter Pan books that fairies could only contain one emotion at a time because there wasn’t enough room for anything else. But while Roxas is certainly short he’s got the opposite problem. On a quiet day he has enough rage that it could fill two and a half people.</p><p>But it’s the kind of rage that isn’t contagious. That’s probably why he and Terra get on so well.</p><p>Ventus is reclining on the couch when we come out, socked feet up on the couch arm. “So what are we doing for your birthday this year, Terra?”</p><p>Terra fixes him with a grin just as a knock carries from the door. Walking over, he pulls it open to reveal a woman with dark hair of average height and the human bean pole that is Lea.</p><p>Ducking beneath the door frame, one hand on his spikes to keep them from touching it, our bassist makes a point of saying, “Happy birthday you horny bastard.”</p><p>Terra pulls a face at this. “What the hell, man?”</p><p>“You literally started your invite text with a message that said, ‘Hey, don’t drop by without warning for a while. It’s me-time season.’ And you sent it to Leon, too. This is not a fucking drill- Actually, yes it is. You’re doing Self-Fucking Drills.”</p><p>“Suck a dick.”</p><p>“Can I at least sing Happy Birthday first?”</p><p>Terra gives him a playful shove, sending the man a good half a foot taller than him nearly sprawling, hand steadying himself against the door.</p><p>Stepping between them, the woman — Xion, Goddess of Chaos in Human Form — puts a hand on Terra’s arm, leans up to kiss his cheek, and says, “Happy Birthday.” She’s got on these clothes that don’t quite fit today, a touch too big and absolutely not her style; loose jeans and a polo. A <em>polo</em>. She hates polos. Did she come here from her boyfriend’s place? Her hair isn’t in its usual coif, styled out from the roots to curl around her face. Instead it’s limp and almost damp against her forehead. Did she get here in a rush?</p><p>As soon as she steps away from Terra, I step up to her and motion to get clothes. “You comfortable in those?”</p><p>“If that’s an offer, I will absolutely take you up,” she whispers.</p><p>I try not to laugh.</p><p>Heading down the hall and into the laundry room at the end, we hang a right and take the flight of stairs up into the attic. Pushing the door open, we step into the spare room that serves as Ventus’ lodging while he’s in town. There are clothes strewn about the floor, the door to the bathroom is thrown wide, and a dildo sits drying out in the open, suction cup keeping it suspended on the mirror over the sink.</p><p>“Someone’s been having fun,” Xion laughs. She takes a seat on the bed, spreading herself over the blankets. “Ooh, soft. It’s been a while since I was in this bed.”</p><p>“Oh? How long?” Stepping up to the dresser, I pull open the bottom right — my drawer — and retrieve a smaller pair of skinny jeans. “Years? Decades? Since you and Terra were going out, back when this was his room?”</p><p>She laughs. It’s a light sound. An embarrassed sound, maybe, going by the shallow breaths and short notes. “About six months, actually. Last time Ventus was in town we fooled around a bit.”</p><p>They did? That… actually doesn’t surprise me. Pulling my jeans out of the drawer, along with a shirt — thick, cotton, soft, so nice, wait she probably wants something thinner-</p><p>“Before you ask, yes. It was very weird.”</p><p>Putting the jeans and shirt back, I try to look for the single pair of shorts I keep in the dresser. “Why was it weird?”</p><p>“Because him and Roxas look so similar,” she replies softly. “They’re nothing alike, though.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Right.</p><p>Their weird-ass love triangle meets the Doppelgänger bullshit.</p><p>It’s weird to think Ventus has carbon copies of varying heights running around town.</p><p>Stuffing my hand in the back of the drawer, I manage to retrieve the single pair of red shorts and a tank top that is going to swim on Xion. Not necessarily because it’s large, but because it’s been stretched to accommodate my proportionately obnoxious bust. Xion isn’t nearly as… endowed.</p><p>She’s barely got more than mosquito bites.</p><p>As I hold the shirt in my hands, my head makes connections in seconds that it shouldn’t. I’m in a relationship. I shouldn’t be thinking of this.</p><p>But I am.</p><p>I’m remembering the small and extremely pert, gentle slopes of her breasts. The soft curve of her ass. Her teeth against my hand as she would bite down, keeping her screams as far down in her throat as she could as my fingers slipped through lube inside her new vagina, showing her just how to use the nerve endings when they began to connect a year after her bottom surgery. Her mouth, open and gasping and shiny with spit and <em>only</em> spit. No makeup. No lotions. No chemicals. Just her and me and sweat and spit and aloe-lube that felt enough like my own slick that I held no reservations bringing her to the edge over and over… and showing her how to do the same for me.</p><p>And Xion is straight.</p><p>She didn’t feel very straight when she put her mouth on me. Didn’t feel very straight when she brought our clits together and fucked against me, hands against my breasts and sliding into my hair and gripping me by the shoulders to bring me into chaste kisses, just the way I like them.</p><p>It just goes to show how far you can go without love or sexual attraction, so long as you’re curious.</p><p>So long as you’re willing.</p><p>So long as you think you’re doing the right thing.</p><p>Stop.</p><p>Stop thinking about it.</p><p>I need to stop thinking about-</p><p>“Lost in a thought?” Xion’s voice is gentle, and her hand on my arm is warm and firm, with broad calluses on her middle finger and thumb from her time gripping a tattoo pen. It grounds me for a moment.</p><p>This is reality.</p><p>Whatever I had with Xion was temporary. A favor. Exploration. I knew that. I <em>know</em> that.</p><p>I should be over it.</p><p>“Here,” I say at last, offering her the clothes. Then I step away, moving out of the room. Down the stairs.</p><p>
  <em>She was so gentle.</em>
</p><p>Into the hall.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t remember.</em>
</p><p>The moment I step into the living room, Terra shoves a pair of gardening gloves into my hands. They’re heavy, with a leather palm and extra padding on the fingers. They’re not the weird coated ones he’s given everyone else.</p><p>I’ve never liked the coated ones. They feel weird.</p><p>Everyone mingles a bit before Xion comes in. As soon as she drops her purse on the couch, Terra shoves a pair of gloves at her and we head out onto the porch, down the steps, and into the front yard.</p><p>It’s mostly business from there. Leon arrived at some point while I was upstairs, and he’s quickly assigned to moving full baskets inside the house and replacing them with empty ones. (Probably because of his upper body strength. Because drummer.) I’m on squash duty, clipping and lifting and piling into baskets. I try to focus on that. I really do…</p><p>But Xion is on aphid inspection, the tiny shorts I loaned her riding right up her legs to pop out the back hem, showing off the high-rising string of a neon-orange thong and a stark tanline highlighting the familiar, gentle curve of her ass; from a darker beige to a deep, golden bronze.</p><p>Forcing my eyes back to the squash, I go into my bag, pop in some earbuds, and try not to beat myself up too much for staring. It’s not like I’m intentionally ogling her. It’s not like I’m checking her out with ill intentions. It’s not like I’m actively entertaining thoughts about… <em>us</em>.</p><p>Sometimes you just want to look at pretty people.</p><p>(And sometimes you stare at just the wrong time and learn what kind of underwear they’re wearing.)</p><p>“You drink now?!” Lea’s voice carries like a brick through a window, which is strange ‘cause he’s got a heavy rasp from smoking since he was fifteen. It carries right through my earbuds and over my music to make me curious enough to take one out.</p><p>“-atch the vine, and <em>yes</em>, I’ve decided it’s time to try drinking again. There’s some beer in the fridge if you want one.”</p><p>“‘If I want one,’” Lea mocks. “Of course I want one, man. This is a three-smoke-break, two-beer sort of activity. It’s, like, 90°. I would <em>love</em> a motherfucking beer.”</p><p>Terra laughs. It’s one of those deep-belly ones that shakes his shoulders. “One motherfucking beer it is, then. Anyone else want one while I’m in there?”</p><p>Surprising probably absolutely no one, Leon says, “I’ll take one.”</p><p>Okay, maybe that was a little uncalled for. Maybe I’m… Fuck, I’m in a bad mood, aren’t I? Shit. Shit-</p><p>“You want-”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>!” I shout, falling to my side in the grass as Terra fucking <em>teleports</em> next to me.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Aqua, sorry!” he half shouts, taking an immediate step away, hands up by his head.</p><p>There could be worse reflexes, but the fact that this guy defaults to the universal “don’t shoot” mime frankly scares me.</p><p>Pushing myself up off the grass, I take one of those calming breaths Terra takes. I’m not sure it helps. For a moment I close my eyes and imagine a black circle. Breathe. It expands. Breathe. It expands.</p><p>Breathe.</p><p>It expands.</p><p>It is my world.</p><p>Eyes sliding open, I try not to flinch at how bright it is and reach for my sunglasses. “I’ll take one of those motherfucking beers,” I say, setting them against my ears and pushing them up my nose.</p><p>There’s a solid three seconds before Terra reacts. Then, lips quirking in a grin, he jerks a thumb toward the porch. “I’ll just go grab one of those, then.” He takes a step back, then another, then turns to face the direction of a pair of little red shorts. “Xion, you want a motherfucking beer?” And it’s a meme now.</p><p>“Maybe not a <em>motherfucking</em> beer, but I’ll settle for a beer from a prissy sonofabitch.”</p><p>“I’ll see what I can do.”</p><p>Terra walks away… and I don’t know how I feel right now. I put in my other earbud and turn up my music. It’s something from our second album, right now, since I just threw my tracks on shuffle. Most of the pieces from that album feed into each other, and it’s hard to tell which is which until the lyrics start and the melody is tweaked to accommodate them. My hands move to the beat of the drums out of habit. “I’ve got a few words for you, building up inside me.” Grab squash; snip from vine; bring around to basket; return. “They’re fighting to the surface, waging war on everything.” It’s a hypnotic rhythm, and as I move it… my head…</p><p>Sometimes I feel like I’ve stopped existing. My hands are moving. My body is moving. The squash is moving. But me? I’m not absorbing any of it. I’m kind of just here… but I’m not.</p><p>Everything is present but me.</p><p>A can moves into my line of vision, silver and gold. There’s the image of grain printed on the side — a logo — and as I turn to thank Terra, his face turning into mine to press sweaty lips to my forehead, murmuring something I can’t hear over the music-</p><p>Paine.</p><p>They’re standing stalk-still between the bushes and the mailbox, attention fixed on me- But no, their attention <em>isn’t</em> on me because it’s moving as Terra stands. Following-</p><p>Please no. Not <em>again</em>. It was a forehead kiss! That’s totally normal friend behavior! It’s a place your parents would kiss you!</p><p>Just… act normal. Please just act normal. For the love of fucking- Oh, they’re coming over.</p><p>Grabbing the beer, I rise quickly to my feet and pull out my earbuds. Do I look guilty? The way they’re looking at me makes me feel guilty. “Hey, you made it,” I say, and it sounds relatively confident.</p><p>Terra shuffles the beers in his arms, cans clanging as he moves them into the curve of his elbow. “Is that them? Paine?”</p><p>“Yeah.” It comes out softer than I want it to, but maybe that’s okay. It’s just for him. It’s just… Fuck. Fuck, they’re here. They’re here, they’re here-</p><p>“Hey.” Paine’s voice is pitched lower than usual, and they’ve got their binder on under a tighter tank top. Are they trying to show off? To establish a first impression that’s more masculine? It’s 93°. They’re going to get heat stroke.</p><p>“I’m going to hand the rest of these out, then you’ve got to introduce us,” Terra says, lifting the arm with the beers a bit higher. “Let me know if you want a beer, Paine.”</p><p>“Let’s see some ID first, sparky!” Lea calls from a few rows over, behind a trellis of vine okra.</p><p>“They’re twenty-three,” I snap at him in their defense. “Besides, you’ve been offering Roxas booze since he was eighteen.”</p><p>“For the <em>last fucking time</em>, he’s smarter than literally all of us combined, I thought he was in his mid twenties, for a solid ten minutes I thought he was <em>Ventus</em>, he <em>immediately</em> punched me in the stomach, and he didn’t take me up on it for <em>five years</em>.”</p><p>Paine is saying nothing. They’re not even looking around. They’re just… staring at me.</p><p>“I have it on video,” Xion chimes in. “Lea really did make the worst first impression possible.”</p><p>I make a point not to look over at Xion as she says this. Let’s not draw attention to the hot woman wearing my clothes with a thong on display. I have this strange feeling I’m already in the doghouse.</p><p>I manage to look away just as Terra is handing the last two beers in his arms to Leon.</p><p>Glancing up from the basket he was hauling, he straightens. “What’s the other one for?” he asks.</p><p>“Xion said she’ll take a beer from a prissy sonofabitch,” Terra replies cooly. “That’s you.”</p><p>Lea, Ventus, and Xion snigger a bit, only to break into full laughter as Leon rolls his eyes and takes the beers. Hoisting them in his hands, Leon walks through the raised garden beds and toward his roommate. “Alright. I got your prissy sonofabitch beer.”</p><p>Rising up to stand straight, Xion pops her hip and stares at Leon with pouty pink lips, arms crossing beneath her breasts. “Really? I was hoping it’d be prissier.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, Roxas isn’t here so you’ll have to settle for me.”</p><p>There’s the sound of sputtering, gagging, and I turn just in time to find Lea pulling his beer away, coughing over the grass. The brew drips from his chin. Wiping at it with one hand, he spares a moment to flip Leon off, calling out, “Eat my entire dick, bitchface,” before patting the moisture off on the long shorts that only make it a few inches before his knees. Setting his beer down, he turns back to the higher sections of okra.</p><p>Then Terra is back, thank fuck, because Paine… is still staring at me. Clearing my throat more for dramatics than anything — set the stage, set the <em>fucking stage</em> — I motion between Terra and Paine. “Terra, this is Paine Yeo. Paine,” I motion the other way. “This is Eduardo Moreno Diaz. No one actually calls him that, though. He’s Terra.”</p><p>Terra offers his hand, grinning wide. “It’s great to finally meet you.”</p><p>And…</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Nothing happens.</p><p>Paine doesn’t move. Paine doesn’t talk. Paine turns their face to Terra and stares like they’ve been staring at me, and I don’t know what to do.</p><p>Legitimately, what the actual fuck is going on?</p><p>With a shrug and a snort, Terra pulls back his hand, running it through his hair to send droplets of sweat down his neck and arms. “Yeah, I wouldn't want to touch me right now, either. I’m a sweat monster.”</p><p>“How are you even that sweaty? We just started,” I ask.</p><p>Terra then turns. Stares.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<em>It’s 93°</em>.”</p><p>Pulling off one glove, I shove my hand out towards him and say, “Touch it.”</p><p>“What? What the hell?”</p><p>Pointedly staring him dead in the “eye” — closer to his eyebrows, really — I make a point to “hold” his gaze and say, voice monotone, expression flat, “Touch it.”</p><p>“Your hands are cold, aren’t they?”</p><p>“Touch it.”</p><p>A second passes, then he reaches out to touch with one curious hand, then takes a step forward to engulf them with his. Warmth. Sweet warmth. “Jesus Fuck, Aqua, it’s in the fucking ninties. How are you still cold?”</p><p>“You humans are so strange, with your ‘overheating’ and ‘not getting frostnip in sixty degree weather’ habits,” I announce in a flat deadpan. “Behold, for I am an elemental. A being of chaos. An ice cube masquerading in this pale sack of flesh.”</p><p>“Aren’t you wearing, like, two or three layers?” he asks.</p><p>“I am chaos.”</p><p>“You’re wearing, like, leggings right now, aren’t you? Your jeans look unusually smooth.”</p><p>“Elemental.”</p><p>“You baffle me,” he says, then turns back to Paine. “I’m warning you — in winter her feet can turn purple after walking in the snow for too long. And by ‘too long’ I mean five minutes in boots with multiple pairs of socks on. You’ll probably have issues getting into bed. Electric blankets burn her, so just get used to being miserable.”</p><p>“Terra, what the fuck,” I say, voice still flat.</p><p>“Do not anticipate anything — literally anything — but cold feet. If her feet are warm it’s either over a hundred or she’s got a fever. A fever for her is 98°, so keep an eye out for that.”</p><p>Pulling my hand out of Terra’s, I slip the glove back on and step away. “Whatever. You two have fun.” Turning back to the raised garden bed, I sink to my knees, pop in my earbuds, and go back to my self-hypnotism. Grab, cut, basket, back. Grab, cut, basket, back. Grab, cut, basket- Oh, hey, that’s Paine. Popping out an earbud, I watch as they slip on a pair of coated gloves — the kind I hate — and reach for a squash.</p><p>“So what’s up with this party?” Paine asks, voice light. “I wasn’t exactly expecting garden labor.”</p><p>“Most of this is going to the food bank,” I answer quickly. “Terra donates the majority of his produce to the town.”</p><p>“Speaking of your donations, why are there no tomatoes this year? This is, like, 90% green shit,” Xion points out loudly.</p><p>“Last year everyone grew so many tomatoes they didn’t accept half of my donation. Squash seemed fun,” is Terra’s quick answer. “I also have an arrangement with Dorothea this year. She won’t grow squash and I won’t grow tomatoes.”</p><p>Lea huffs, loud and dramatic. “Dorothea? As in Dorothy Gale? Or-”</p><p>“Other Dorothea.”</p><p>There’s a short pause, then Lea pitches in a dry, “Wasn’t that the bitch who locked you in the coat closet at church once? Kept calling you slurs in the hall and insisting you needed an exorcism?” She <em>what</em>?</p><p>He laughs, but when no reply comes it’s answer enough.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Shit, I didn’t know it was that bad.</p><p>“Oh. Oh, <em>hey</em>. Didn’t her daughter elope to the city with a black guy a few years back?” Lea continues brightly. “Talk about life imitating art.”</p><p>“<em>That</em> is actually how we have our truce!” Terra sounds far too happy with this. “See, now that she has mixed-race grandkids, she’s trying to ‘connect with the ethnics.’ Her words, not mine.”</p><p>If I roll my eyes any harder they might fall out.</p><p>There’s a grunt, the brush of a basket against the grass, and then Leon says from somewhere close, “It’s good that she’s trying, at least. That’s more than a lot of people do.”</p><p>As I bring the squash back to my basket, I find it’s been replaced with an empty one.</p><p>“That is <em>exactly</em> my reaction. Encourage the change you want to see in the world,” Terra says loudly.</p><p>Lea immediately fires back with, “If I didn’t know you I’d think you were being sarcastic.”</p><p>There’s laughter. This is funny. I should find it funny. It’s a good day. It’s a good day and I should be happy.</p><p>I think my anxiety is kicking up.</p><p>Paine works silently beside me, and I feel like we should be talking right now. Joking. Laughing. But instead we’re quiet, clipping squash and piling it. Do they feel awkward? Do they feel safe here? Have I made a mistake?</p><p>Is this too soon?</p><p>It’s been months, though.</p><p>It isn’t too long before we start running out of bushes to harvest, moving through the yard in small increments, and then Terra is going around, dripping sweat, flannel gone and tank top hanging from a belt-loop. His bare chest is on display, deeply tanned — though not as deep as his arms and face. It’s an uneven farmer’s tan, coated in sweat and shining in the dying daylight. “Paine, you want that beer before we get to the main event?”</p><p>Oh, right. My beer.</p><p>Leaning over to nab the can from where I set it two bushes before, I try not to wince as I take the first sip. It’s warm, and not nearly as refreshing as it would have been half an hour ago. All I can taste are the hops.</p><p>Paine is quiet as they rise to their feet before shifting their weight onto their right foot and saying, “Sure. One beer can’t hurt.”</p><p>“Awesome. Aqua, open in the garage, would you? And set up some chairs, if you’re not opposed. We’ll be there in a sec.” Terra waves us off as he and the others head through the gate into the back yard, leaving me, Paine, and Xion behind.</p><p>Rubbing her hands like a villain, Xion peels off her gloves and pulls up on her — my — shorts. “Whelp. Garage time.” She heads through the garden at a half-jog, racing up the driveway and toward the garage before pulling it up.</p><p>There’s the usual clack of metal before I round the corner to see. There are tools: woodworking supplies, larger bits of equipment, his beekeeping gear — suits, smokers, and other things he’s definitely told me the names of but upon pain of death I wouldn’t be able to remember.</p><p>“Is that a piñata?” Xion gasps.</p><p>There is also, it appears, a piñata. It’s round, yellow with black stripes, could be a bee if you looked sideways at a squint, and hangs from the ceiling by a series of braided lengths of garden twine. “Looks like we’re in for a fun evening,” I murmur.</p><p>The door to the rest of the house flies open. Terra and the other guys jog down the steps into the basement, carrying more beer and-</p><p>“Is that your old slingshot?” I find myself asking, staring pointedly at the device in Lea’s hand. “I haven’t seen that thing in years.”</p><p>Lifting it dramatically, Lea corrects me with an unnecessarily proud, “It’s technically a wrist rocket.”</p><p>“Aren’t those illegal?” Paine asks loudly.</p><p>“Wrist braced slingshots — informally referred to as wrist rockets — are illegal to sell in many Garden states and territories. In these states they are also illegal to purchase or have in your possession. Some jurisdictions do allow the sale and possession of wrist rocks but may greatly limit and regulate their use, extending some protections to small game while hunting. Possession of a wrist-braced tactical slingshot within areas that do not fall under such jurisdictions is a misdemeanor regardless of intended use and can result in a minimum fine of $1,300 or 30 days in jail,” Lea declares proudly.</p><p>“... So it’s illegal,” Paine sums up sharply.</p><p>“In the town limits of Radiant Garden, it is illegal to use a wrist rocket to fire upon small game such as squirrels, raccoons, or rabbits,” Lea continues brightly. “But we’re in a nice neighborhood, on private property, surrounded by bushes, this is a piñata, and I am <em>white</em>.”</p><p>“We still gotta be careful, though,” Terra adds. “If someone out there decides they don’t want a brown man pointing a weapon at a piñata and calls the police, most of us are kind of fucked.”</p><p>Leon cuts in with a helpful, “I’m white. I could stand by the van or something.”</p><p>“You’re not white. Even you don’t know what you are,” Xion fires back, pulling a folding stool out from the side of a tall tool box. She sets it up backwards, mounting it like a stereotypical cool high school guy with a lunch chair in a late 80’s, early 90’s movie.</p><p>“I haven’t gotten a proper tan in years and am white passing right now, which is what matters. I could be from… I could be from Alexandria.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely not Alexandrian.”</p><p>“Look, police aren’t going to ask for an ancestry test. And didn’t Terra ask you guys to get chairs? What happened to that?” he fires back.</p><p>Red shorts pop out to display the string of an orange thong as Xion leans forward. “Did he? I don’t remember that.” Her head tilts, body shifting to the right, and the hem slips further- oh shit.</p><p>I turn my eyes away. Did Paine notice me staring? No, they’re looking at Lea. “Let’s get the chairs from the deck,” I suggest, nudging them with my elbow.</p><p>“Maybe we should close the garage while we do this,” Terra suggests nervously as I step out. “At least halfway. I’m too brown to be whipping around something like that.”</p><p>Xion laughs. “So <em>cautious</em>.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare tease me for this.”</p><p>“We’ll protect you, man.” Lea’s voice is quiet and soft and all too intimate for a moment like this.</p><p>The rubber bottom of the garage door is hot against my hand as I duck beneath it, stepping out onto the concrete. I’m starting to warm up, at last. Maybe I can even take off this flannel, soon. Grass — a good four inches of it, almost three times as tall as the neighborhood-mandated length — sways as a gentle breeze kicks through the yard, shifting like an ocean beneath me as I take those first first steps up the porch. I can hear Paine behind me, their knock-off Converse almost silent against the steps.</p><p>“Your friends are weird.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I agree without thinking. “We’re just a bunch of weirdos.” Clearing the landing, I go for the deck chairs. There are about six of them, two on display and four folded up and stacked in the corner against the safety rail.</p><p>“I don’t know why I didn’t expect Xion to be here. We met through her and Rikku.” Paine’s voice is soft. When I turn to look they’re standing at the top of the steps, hand playing with a bit of their hair and eyes mostly shuttered, hip up against the handrail. “And I wasn’t expecting Terra to be hot.”</p><p>A laugh bubbles up out of my mouth, and it sounds a little manic. “Yeah, back when he would come out with us on the town it would be hard standing next to him sometimes. I’d be making a score with some bi girl and the moment he’d walk up they’d be so distracted. Which, fair. But some would straight up go, ‘You know what? Nevermind.’ You’ve never seen thirst in a girl’s eyes until you’ve worked her up for a bit of oral in the bathroom and then <em>that guy</em> walks up. This was before the whole ‘long neck, pointy face, big-ass alien eyes’ look was really mainstream. I had to work for it, okay? I was not conventionally attractive. I can’t compete with that. He’s kind of the whole package.”</p><p>“I didn’t know you were the kind of girl who did random hookups.”</p><p>Woops. “I haven’t done that in a long time,” I say, intentionally vague. Three months before Paine was my last random hook up. That’s about nine months. “Does that bother you, though?”</p><p>Paine shrugs. “Not my life to judge.” That’s a dodge.</p><p>It bothers them.</p><p>Turning away, I step over to the pile of collapsed deck chairs, lifting one to an arm. Should I say something? I should say something. But what? I don’t want to make things worse, but I don’t want to just change the subject when they’re obviously lying to me.</p><p>But I’m lying to them, too, in my own way. They didn’t ask me if I was into random hookups; they just said they didn’t think I was the type. I didn’t have to answer… but it was <em>implied</em>. What bothers them about it? The possible venereal fallout? The risk? Hookup culture itself? How free I was with affection? The idea that I’m easy?</p><p>I am easy.</p><p>I’m very easy.</p><p>Sex is nice and I can’t afford to be picky.</p><p>Now I have Paine, and I don’t need to worry about that anymore… but I have a feeling explaining that could end in an argument.</p><p>So I don’t say anything.</p><p>I bring down two chairs, and when I glance back to where Paine is trailing behind me after setting them in the garage I realize Paine has the rest, arms through the bottom loops of wood. They lift them easily, trim muscles on display before ducking easily beneath the lip of the garage and settling them on the ground with the others.</p><p>Terra claps and whistles, grin splitting his cheeks. “Didn’t know you could lift, man. Strong arms. Probably strong hands, too.” He turns his attention on me, giving me a quick wink. “Bet you must love that.”</p><p>Do I agree? I do enjoy it. But Paine doesn’t like when I talk about sexual stuff in public. But would this be different? These are my friends, and I’m usually so open with them. But-</p><p>“You know what? You’re alright.”</p><p>What?</p><p>Terra turns to Paine as they say this, laughing. Wiping his hand on his shorts, he offers it with a low thrust towards them, stopping a polite distance away. “Can I get that handshake, then?”</p><p>There is no hesitation. With a rare wide grin and a soft, “Yeah, you can have that handshake,” Paine steps forward to grasp his hand in theirs.</p><p>After they shake and release, Terra shoves his thumbs in his pockets and gives them a quick once-over. “I was getting tired of the pissing contest, anyways.”</p><p>Pissing contest? They weren’t having a pissing contest. Were they?</p><p>Paine’s expression twists. “Pissing contest? What’s that?”</p><p>There’s a series of clacks, and as I glance to the side Ventus is grabbing one of the discarded chairs to set it up. “It’s a competition — official or unspoken — where you repeatedly try to prove you’re better than the other person,” he says as he spreads it out. Taking a seat, he grabs his beer from the garage floor and sets the back to recline as far as it can. “In modern use it can be used to describe a friendly rivalry. This one began when you, Paine, turned Terra down for a handshake. It escalated when our local beefcake here took both his shirts off and started flexing.”</p><p>Large hand cupping the back of his head in a show of nerves, Terra gives a weak chuckle. “You noticed that, huh?”</p><p>“You have no tact,” Ventus says just as Xion goes, “You’re obvious as fuck.”</p><p>“I’ve been enjoying the show, at least,” Lea puts in dryly. “You keep it tight, man.”</p><p>Flexing a bicep — shit, but Lea’s not wrong — Terra looks over his shoulder before teasing, “You wanna touch?”</p><p>“Dude, as much as I want to destroy our friendship over my desire to touch literally every part of your body with every single one of my orifices, I have a girlfriend and I would prefer to keep temptation to a minimum.”</p><p>“Duly noted.”</p><p>Okay, I’ve missed a lot.</p><p>Shifting to nudge Terra with their elbow, Paine offers a quiet, “I think I’ve seen you at the gym before. Radiant Fitness, near uptown. You been?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s my gym. Three times a week minimum, usually around eleven so there aren’t as many people,” Terra agrees, turning back to face them. “I don’t think I’ve seen you running around, though.”</p><p>“If I go, it’s usually right after my internship. It’s just across the street. I intern at the dental clinic across the street. I think I’ve seen you enter the building, but we’ve never really shared the floor.”</p><p>“That makes sense,” Terra says, lips pursing. Is he losing interest? He looks like he’s losing interest.</p><p>“You look like a big guy. What do you bench?” Paine asks as they grab one of the chairs.</p><p>There’s a flurry of movement as everyone seems to realize that yes, there are chairs, and yes, they are available to use.</p><p>“Hey, we need one more chair,” I point out, realizing there are seven of us and six chairs.</p><p>“We can share,” Paine offers quietly and oh.</p><p>Oh.</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>Oh, I like this idea.</p><p>I like this idea very much.</p><p>When we’ve finally settled into place — Paine cuddled in at my side, warm and sweaty and boney and I want to <em>kiss</em> them but I just throw my arm around their shoulders — Leon half closes the garage while Lea starts marking the floor with chalk.</p><p>“I bench 250 on the regular, and 300 on a good day, if I’m in good condition,” Terra says, scooting his chair closer to ours. The size difference is so obvious like this, with his broad shoulders taking up the majority of the space afforded him while Paine and I fit quite comfortably with my arm over their shoulder.</p><p>“Shit, that’s intense,” is Paine’s immediate reply. “I’m only up to 175.”</p><p>“To be fair, you can’t be more than 150, yourself.”</p><p>“True. I’m about 135.”</p><p>“Hey, spot me with this old mattress. I’m putting it behind the piñata. We don’t want too much ricochet.” That would be Lea.</p><p>“Then you’re benching one and a quarter your weight. That’s a pretty good ratio.”</p><p>I cut in with, “Terra, you weigh around 180 and bench 275. That’s not a good ratio to you.”</p><p>A dark eyebrow arches at this, and his cheek pops as he grins unevenly. “This isn’t a pissing contest any more; it’s just a friendly chat. I’m not trying to show off. We’re in totally different weight classes, anyways, and I’ve definitely been going at this longer. Let me make peace with the nice man.”</p><p>Man?</p><p>Paine shifts under my arm and seems to… shrink? “How did you know?” they ask, voice small. “I haven’t told Aqua yet.”</p><p>What?</p><p>“Dude, <em>you</em> told me. You’ve got a binder on, you’ve got trans flag socks sticking out of your fuckin’ Vans, and that button on your belt very clearly has the symbol for ‘male’ on it.”</p><p>Hey, what the fuck? That’s… true. It’s all true. Sitting like this I can see their jeans riding up their ankles, putting white, blue, and pink on display. I already knew about the binder, but the little blue button on their belt with the circle and arrow… Were they trying to tell me? Did they not feel safe telling me? What message <em>exactly</em> are they trying to send? I thought they were gender neutral, and that was the point of their steps toward transition. Does this mean they are actually transitioning to be a guy? Does that mean I’m dating a guy? Why are they sending all these signals if-</p><p>“Have you started T yet?”</p><p>“I won’t for a few more months, I think. We’re trying to get my insurance to cover it, but it’s a lot of litigation and fine print.”</p><p>“Looks good. What did you bring for ammo?” That would be Leon.</p><p>“I was going to tell you.” Oh fuck, Paine’s talking to me, now. They’re looking directly at me, their red contacts bright and their lips parted-</p><p>“That’s great news,” I say, because it is, and I don’t want to overthink this. My partner is transitioning, but I’m… They’re a guy? Was this a recent realization? Did they always know? Has it been something they’re scared to bring up with me?</p><p>Did they tell Terra — tell <em>me</em> — in a public setting because they were afraid of how I’d react? Because I’m a lesbian? Because I’m… Fuck.</p><p>Are they actually comfortable here or is it just an act?</p><p>Paine looks… Their lips twitch but don't really move, and their eyes pinch a bit at the corners. What is this reaction? I don't understand and- What face am I making right now?</p><p>Fuck, <em>what face am I making right now</em>?</p><p>“Alright, guys, we’re ready to shoot this thing,” Lea announces.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Piñata Pop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It was brought to my attention that not everyone knows what Pop-Its are. I’ve had people argue it’s an American thing. A city thing. A rural thing. As someone who did their homework, I can assure you it’s an inescapable reality of fireworks stands and a testament to the fact that sometimes putting tiny explosives in the hands of a five year old is a good idea and will set up you for a solid thirty minutes of hilarity — especially when they aren’t strong enough to trigger them just by throwing them and start stomping over the sidewalk, waiting for a pop. (I was absolutely that child well into my 10’s.)</p><p>
  <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bang_snaps">The list of alternative names for them in the opening summary of their Wikipedia page also 1) explains why "Pop-It's" confused the people I asked about it because what the hell, why does it have so many names and 2) absolutely makes me lose my shit.</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Same Day, Thursday, August 12th</strong>
</p><p>“Alright, guys, we’re ready to shoot this thing,” Lea announces.</p><p>I glance over to find Lea holding the wrist rocket and a large box of goggles. “Friendly reminder that <em>everyone</em> has to wear these and no, it is <em>not</em> negotiable. If I could, I’d have you all wearing armor. We’re about to shoot a wrist rocket in a mostly closed garage at a piñata with a mattress behind it. Aim true or don’t fire, guys. But I don't expect perfection which is why...” He nods his head to the side. “Get the thing.”</p><p>Leon jumps. “Oh, right.” Jogging back over to stairs, Leon takes the four small steps up, opens the door to the house, reaches in, and retrieves an open bag of colorful mini-marshmallows.</p><p>“For ammo we have stale Leon-Death-Balls. And uh…” He pauses, turning back to Leon to ask softly, “Speaking of which, these won’t fuck with your corn allergy if they shatter, right dude? Those things are mostly corn syrup.”</p><p>A shrug. “I should be fine. I’ll just borrow a respirator mask if it becomes a problem. If not, I’ve got cough drops, benadryl, and epipens.”</p><p>“I’d rather you not have to use any of those. And did you finally find some cough drops you’re not allergic to?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“So your first step to combat a throat-closing deadly allergy is to just… extend it?”</p><p>“Corn is in <em>everything</em>. Are we going to shoot this piñata or are we going to debate the pros and cons of using cough drops over benadryl to stop my throat from closing up?”</p><p>“Right. Right, that’s… Right.” Turning back to face us, Lea shakes the box. “Get your armor, bitches. Let’s not put out any eyes today.”</p><p>Paine hops right out of the chair, going for the box first. They’re back just as everyone else is still getting up, holding out a pair of goggles for me to take.</p><p>I reach out, and they’re smooth and cool in my hands, ridges just a bit sharp against my fingers. For a moment I can only stare at them. Questions. So many questions. They’re rolling around in my head… but I can’t ask them here.</p><p>“Okay, guys, put ‘em on.”</p><p>“So why is the piñata so ugly? And why are we using a wrist rocket instead of a bat?” Paine asks, settling into the chair next to me. They’re warm, their skin is soft, and they smell nice today. Just deodorant and… Oh.</p><p>They’re not wearing makeup today.</p><p>“Put ‘em on, guys. Right now. I don’t want to put any eyes out.”</p><p>There’s a little scar on their chin, and-</p><p>“Because I made it from newspaper and flour. It’s got a ton of little pockets inside full of confetti and Pop-Its.”</p><p>“Goggles. Protection. Permanent blindness via marshmallows, guys.”</p><p>- there’s this little- did he say Pop-Its? “Did you say Pop-Its?”</p><p>“Yes, actually, I <em>did</em> say Pop-Its,” Terra agrees brightly just as Lea shouts, “Goggles on, bitches!” and steps up to the chalk line not far from our chairs.</p><p>As his arm comes up the words fail to register in my head. On? Goggles? What? Oh — <em>Oh shit</em>. Fumbling for the goggles in my hands, I press them quickly to my face, holding them on in lieu of fighting with the elastic on short notice. There’s the clatter of plastic as Lea draws the wrist rocket pouch back to his lip and releases in one smooth move, bands snapping dramatically.</p><p>“Fuck, Lea,” Xion snaps, goggles having fallen to the floor. “Mine weren’t on yet. You wanna blind me?”</p><p>Lea laughs, pointing to the bag of marshmallows across the garage and saying quickly, “It was empty. Y’all weren’t putting on your goggles so I thought I’d put the fear of God into you.”</p><p>“You motherfucker,” Xion snaps, then collapses back into her chair. “You’re right but I hate you.” Reaching up, she presses them against her face and pulls the elastic behind her head.</p><p>Striding over to the bag of marshmallows, Lea snatches it up and heads back to the line. “Put ‘em on, guys. Properly. I’m not gonna fire or show y’all how to shoot until we’re all nice and safe.”</p><p>Adjusting the goggles against my face, I detangle the elastic from itself before slipping it around my ears. It’s tight, uncomfortable, and pinches my skin no matter how I adjust it, but it’s better than going blind.</p><p>I’m going to have a headache in five minutes at this rate.</p><p>Through the scratched plastic of the goggles, Lea glances around at everyone, hair squished by the goggles. “Cool. Okay, everyone’s all set. Now, the first thing you want to do is have a horrible flashback to the optional archery course they had in the local middle school, which I realize now Terra absolutely did not attend. But the point is you’re holding this thing like a bow and arrow, okay? Turn to your side, relax your hand, lock your left or right wrist — whatever’s holding the slingshot — and just gently release pressure on the pouch until it slips out. This isn’t a movie; your draw hand isn’t going to fly out dramatically.”</p><p>“Are marshmallows even going to penetrate this thing?” Paine puts in when Lea pauses.</p><p>“They’re stale,” Leon puts in as Lea brings a single pink marshmallow out of the bag and loads it into the pouch.</p><p>Ventus clears his throat and announces in an even voice, “I would like to inform those who are not aware that wrist-braced tactical slingshots loaded with a one-inch ball bearing outperform most handguns both in aim and ballistic damage.”</p><p>At my side, Paine turns sharply towards him. “I’m sorry, did you just say <em>handgu</em>-”</p><p>There’s the snap of the bands, paper crunching, the high <em>pop</em> of Pop-Its, and as I glance over to the piñata I stare in surprise as a small spurt of shredded confetti pops out of the back of the back of the piñata to flutter down to the garage floor.</p><p>For a solid five seconds there is silence.</p><p>“Hey, uh… How old are those marshmallows?” Terra asks, words short and clipped. Is he annoyed? Is he amused? Is he making a joke? Is he worried?</p><p>Lea snorts. “To be honest, when I saw the expiration date I got embarrassed and cut off that side of the bag so no one could get an answer to that.”</p><p>“Well, at least we know the mattress is working,” Xion says, climbing out of her seat to grab the small pink marshmallow that had rolled onto the floor just before her feet. “We ready to do this, guys?”</p><p>“Oh hell yes,” Terra says, stepping up to inspect the piñata, turning it to point out the much larger hole in the back. Inside I can barely make out the small pocket inside full of little bits of Pop-It. “Fuck yeah, this was a good idea.” Letting it spin back around, he holds his hand out. “Aqua. Sharpie. I wanna put little targets on this baby.”</p><p>“Make sure to give it nipples,” I say, reaching into my jacket’s inside pocket. I retrieve a single silver sharpie and toss it his way.</p><p>“Sweet,” he says as it clatters to the floor. He picks it up and starts marking up the piñata with little bullseyes that look like nipples like the best friend he is.</p><p>“Who wants to learn how to fire this baby?” Lea asks, holding up the wrist rocket for everyone to see.</p><p>“Oldest to youngest,” Ventus says. “That way Terra fires first, since Lea gave us the demonstration and he’s actually the oldest.”</p><p>“You’re gonna have to show me how to shoot,” Terra says.</p><p>“With as much restrained pleasure as I can manage,” Lea replies happily.</p><p>“Restrained?”</p><p>“Would you rather I felt you up like a fuckin’ romance novel? Dude, I’ve got a girlfriend.”</p><p>“Dude, you <em>always</em> have a girlfriend. Literally, I don’t know the last time you <em>weren’t</em> dating someone. Man, woman, other, <em>multiple people</em>.”</p><p>“Those multiple people were also dating each other, to be fair,” Lea replies dryly. “It was like being part of a sandwich, but there was lube instead of mayo. Although...” He pauses. “There actually was a bit of mayo when I got-”</p><p>“No,” Xion shouts as Terra says, “It’s my birthday man,” as Leon goes, “This is a story is going places,” just as Ventus announces, “I definitely want to hear this.”</p><p>“I’ll give you details later,” Lea says, looking straight at Ventus without shame. Motioning to Terra, he offers the wrist rocket with a dry, “Get up here, prude.”</p><p>“Sure thing, dirty slut.”</p><p>Lea bows dramatically. “You honor me.”</p><p>At my side, Paine watches the interaction, then whispers, “How old is everyone? What order are we going in?”</p><p>“Uh…” I say smartly at first. How old am I? Shit, shit, what year is it? Right, right I’m 33 right now. How old is everyone else? Fuck. Uh… Okay. Okay, Lea was a senior when I was a freshman, and Terra is two years older than me, and I’m 33 now but I’m turning 34 in December and we’re on the weird half-month difference thing. “Lea is 38 and it’s Terra’s 37th birthday today,” I begin, then move to Ventus. Ventus is two years younger than me. “Ventus is 32, Xion over there is-” same grade in high school, so close to mine but her birthday is earlier but we keep making jokes about Halloween every year so it’s in <em>October</em>- “33, turning 34 in a few months, and Leon over there is the same,” thank god that one’s easy, his birthday is a few days after New Years. “And then I’m 33, turning 34 in December, and you’re 23. So that means the order is Lea, Terra, Xion, Me, Leon, Ventus, and you.” Oh god my head is <em>buzzing</em> now. That was a <em>lot</em> of information.</p><p>“Someone write that down,” Terra says, handing me back my sharpie before stepping up to the chalk line.</p><p>“I’ll remember it,” Ventus volunteers.</p><p>Stepping up behind Terra, Lea whispers instructions to him as he lines up his stance, adjusting his arm and feet with gentle taps. “And relax your hand and lock your wrist,” Lea says. “Draw back to your lip now- Yeah, just like that. You’re doing great.”</p><p>“You must be amazing at pillow talk,” Terra whispers just loud enough for me to hear.</p><p>Leaning forward, Lea taps their goggles together and presses a kiss to Terra’s cheek. “Happy birthday.” Then stepping back, he keeps an eye on Terra and says, “Okay, and you want to slowly release until it slips out of your hand, like when you didn’t grab a piece of paper right from someone. Both eyes open.”</p><p>Terra releases, there’s the snap of the bands, and the bottom right of piñata shoots some confetti out of the back as the marshmallow shoots through to the mattress, rolling across the floor. His cheeks push up toward his eyes as he grins, nudging Lea with an arm. “You ever think of being a teacher?”</p><p>“Can’t put my hands all over my students, man. That’s generally frowned upon,” he jokes.</p><p>“I put my hands on my students,” I chip in.</p><p>“You teach self defense and yoga,” Lea fires back. “If I’m teaching anything, it’s going to be ethics.” A hush falls over the room at the words, and Lea stands nervously for a moment, attention on the floor.</p><p>Oh shit.</p><p>Oh shit, is he serious?</p><p>“Ignore me. I’m just being weird. It’s too late for me to go back to school, anyways.”</p><p>Is Lea okay?</p><p>Everyone mills around for a bit, and no one speaks until Ventus says, “Xion’s turn.”</p><p>Hopping out of her seat, Xion walks up and grabs the wrist rocket, then grabs Lea’s hand forcefully to drag him to the chalk line with her. “Guide me, Giant Red Yoda.”</p><p>There’s a chuckle in reply, then, “Do or do not; there is no try,” he whispers, voice flat.</p><p>I kind of wish our chair wasn’t so close to the chalk. This shit is kinda private. “How about we get some music going?” I ask, glancing around. “Do we wanna grab the boombox from the basement?”</p><p>“I’ll grab it,” Leon announces before heading up the stairs and into the house.</p><p>“Shit, he’s going to grab all the British CDs, isn’t he?” Lea complains loudly.</p><p>Leon gets back just as Xion misses the piñata entirely and the marshmallow shatters against the far wall, sending a spray of small bits and powder across the room.</p><p>“You’re terrible at this,” Leon snorts, setting the boombox on the floor and plugging it in.</p><p>Wandering over, Lea asks, “Hey, what did you grab?”</p><p>“Pretty Vicious, Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, The Clash-”</p><p>Lea groans. “Oh my <em>God</em>, it <em>is</em> all British.”</p><p>“Pretty Vicious is <em>Welsh</em>,” Leon insists sharply, then holds up two CDs. “And I brought some Gorillaz, Green Day, and Butthole Surfers in case you guys gave me shit about that.”</p><p>“You predictable piece of shit,” Lea whines. “Okay, I’m voting that Leon go back into the basement and grab a Rancid CD. What about y’all?”</p><p>Ventus and Paine both vote Green Day, I vote Gorillaz because I’m extremely predictable and I like them, and Leon looks at Terra who laughs.</p><p>“It’s my birthday and my house and my vote is six votes.”</p><p>“Birthday boy calls it,” Leon snorts. “So what’ll it be, overlord?”</p><p>“Turn on the classical station on the radio.”</p><p>“Oh my <em>God</em>,” Lea and Xion groan in unison.</p><p>Leon salutes, then turns on the radio, turning it up with a murmured, “Oh, hey, it was already on the classical station.”</p><p>“I hate you,” Xion calls loudly over the violins.</p><p>As Leon steps over to Lea for his turn, Terra steps up to the boombox, pops it open, and slips a CD in. The music goes quiet, then drums sound through the garage.</p><p>“My hero,” Leon says as- oh shit, this is Pretty Vicious. Sweet. I’d know that sloppy pre-pubescent vocalist anywhere. It’s so nice to have punk rock that doesn’t sound like a man screaming at you.</p><p>“Good of you to acknowledge that you can’t shoot a piñata to violins,” Xion grumbles loudly, settling into her chair.</p><p>“Oh, I absolutely could, but I don’t want to,” Terra jokes.</p><p>Leon requires no guidance from Lea. He takes his stance, draws back a marshmallow, and fires it into the piñata.</p><p>“It was actually Aqua’s turn,” Ventus puts in.</p><p>Oh, was it?</p><p>“I kinda don’t wanna shoot,” I admit over the rising noise of the boombox. “You guys just have fun.”</p><p>“You sure?” Ventus asks.</p><p>I nod.</p><p>“Cool. More for us, then,” he says, launching out of his seat toward Leon. “Gimme gimme.”</p><p>Leon passes it off, then Ventus stands behind the line, grabbing two marshmallows out of the bag, prompting Lea to step out and yank the wrist rocket out of his grip.</p><p>“Hey, hey, one only,” Lea snaps.</p><p>“What? I’m experimenting.”</p><p>“Take your experimentation to a shooting range and far away from us, dude.”</p><p>“Party pooper,” Ventus snorts, but obediently puts away the second marshmallow before holding his hand out for the wrist rocket. “Now gimme gimme.”</p><p>Lea stares at him for a solid five seconds before handing it back.</p><p>Ventus aims. Fires. Puts a hole in the piñata just above one of the nipple-targets Terra had drawn on it. Then, as he’s passing our seat, he holds the wrist rocket out for Paine to take. “Your turn.”</p><p>Paine takes it quickly, planting their left hand on the chair arm and pushing out of the seat. Then, taking their stance behind the chalk, they do a practice draw without a marshmallow. “Is this right?” they ask, holding the stance.</p><p>“Feet could be a little further apart. Maybe relax your hand,” Lea calls. “Wrist should be locked.”</p><p>Dropping the stance, Paine grabs a marshmallow, loads it, retakes the stances, draws — biceps stark against their skin, hair slick from the heat, just barely biting their lip, sweat dripping off their elbows — and fires, and I am so turned on right now.</p><p>There’s clapping. Whistles. Terra says, “Okay, new rule; anyone who can shoot a nipple gets another shot added to their turn.”</p><p>They hit a nipple?</p><p>Shifting my attention over to the piñata, I watch it swing lightly from the impact, a hole dead center in one of the smaller targets near the center. Huh.</p><p>“I’ll take that,” Paine says, amused, then reaches down for another marshmallow. This one lands just outside the barriers of another target, and they lower their arm and says, “Can’t win ‘em all,” before handing the wrist rocket back to Lea and climbing back into our chair. There’s a bit of shifting before they find a good spot, and then they… grab my left hand.</p><p>It’s sweaty. Their grip is firm and their thumb rubs up against the base of mine. “Thanks for letting me come to this,” they whisper so low I can barely hear it over the music. They’re leaning close, lips brushing my ear. “I was being a bit of a brat that day, after your gig. I’m sorry. I was being insecure and… I don’t know. I felt threatened, I guess. But I can kind of start to see why you would drop everything for this guy if he was in trouble.”</p><p>“This isn’t really the place to talk about this,” I point out. What if the guys hear? They don’t need to know this has been going on. Nausea builds in my stomach.</p><p>“I know. I’m just letting you know I’m sorry while I have the guts to. So I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Should I make a cake next year?” Terra asks loudly as he draws the bands back. “I feel like we totally missed the whole ‘eat’ part of the ‘eat, drink, be merry,’ triad.”</p><p>“Only if you let me pitch it for ingredients,” Leon says.</p>
<hr/><p>The evening starts winding down around ten, with Terra passing out the last of the beers to those who aren’t driving and Lea stepping out of the garage for a solid half hour to have an argument with… whoever the fuck he’s dating now. The moment he leaves all the energy leaves the room, as it tends to do, and when he comes back he looks tired and drawn. Almost sick.</p><p>Sick.</p><p>Fuck, mom.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>God, I actually forgot about that, didn’t I? There’s a gap in my stomach and I’m tired and I just want to go home, but Paine is holding my hand and… and it's Terra's <em>birthday</em> and…</p><p>And. And, and, and. There's always so much <em>and</em>.</p><p>I'm going to have to tell everyone, aren’t I? “Guys, I kind of have a weird announcement,” I try to say over the music, and as Leon turns the volume on the boombox until it’s barely playing at all, I find my chest seizing. God, how am I going to say this? Should I even say this now? It’s Terra’s birthday. “Tomorrow,” I correct myself. “I have an announcement tomorrow. Can we all be back here tomorrow night? Maybe around ten, so Paine can be there? I don’t… I don’t want to have to say it more than once or deal with a lot of questions.”</p><p>Xion is the first to speak. “I’ve got a client until pretty late, but if I can’t make it then Leon can probably pass it on.”</p><p>No one else speaks. There’s some nods, and serious expressions that make me wonder what I look like right now. Do I look okay? What face am I making?</p><p>I feel like I’m going to cry if I breathe too deep.</p><p>“Tomorrow’s Friday the thirteenth,” Ventus points out, and everyone seems to take a break from the mood at the words, shifting and making small talk until Leon walks over to Terra, placing a hand on his arm.</p><p>“Hey, I gotta head out. Happy Birthday.”</p><p>“Thanks. Ride safe, okay?” Terra replies, slapping his arm playfully. “Let me mix you a drink sometime soon.”</p><p>Leon groans. “You’re going to start mixing drinks again? My liver is not prepared for that. I’m in. Definitely.” As he pulls away, heading out of the garage, he passes by Paine’s side of the chair, sparing them a quick, “Congrats on the transition,” before ducking under the door without giving them a chance to reply.</p><p>After he’s gone, Paine stares after him before slowly turning back to the rest of the group. They stay silent.</p><p>“Wait, right, fuck, I forgot to ask for a ride,” Xion realizes aloud, voice raising in a high, “<em>Leon, wait for me</em>,” before half launching out of her seat. She sprints up to Terra, pulling herself up on his arm to plant a kiss on his cheek, leaving a smear of lipstick. “Happy Birthday, Bee Man.”</p><p>“Always a pleasure, Xion.”</p><p>She sprints under the garage door, yelling, “Leon, stop, let me grab my shit real quick, okay?”</p><p>“Don’t yell. People are sleeping,” I can just barely hear him saying back just as Xion slides back into the garage.</p><p>She sprints up to the stairs, taking the steps quickly before pushing the door open to the house.</p><p>“Bendy,” Paine comments idly.</p><p>“You have no idea,” I reply on autopilot like a <em>fucking idiot</em>.</p><p>They pause and shift, arm bumping mine as they no doubt turn and look at me. “Have you and her-”</p><p>Xion hops back into the room at that exact moment, thank <em>fuck</em>, and I immediately shout, “Hey, Xion, do that arm bend thing.”</p><p>Immediately Xion jolts to a stop, places her things on the garage floor, clasps her hands in front of her chest, fucking <em>winks</em>, and brings them up and over her head. They arch behind her back, shoulders jolting for a moment before her hands continue down to touch her butt without disconnecting.</p><p>“Are you double jointed?” Paine asks, voice high and breathy. Confused? Appalled? Scared? Turned on? Possibly all of the above.</p><p>“No; just desperate for attention from a young age.” And with that little nugget of wisdom she grabs her shit and leaves the garage just as a motorcycle revs outside.</p><p>Following Xion with their gaze, Paine stares at the garage door and asks, “Is that guy Xion’s newest boy toy or something?”</p><p>Whelp. I’m laughing. They’re mostly coming out as snorts. They force their way from me without remorse, shaking my throat and making all of me ache in a way laughter shouldn’t make you ache as I bend over to clutch my stomach. “<em>Boy toy</em>. Oh my God. That’s a word to use for Leon. That’s… That’s a <em>word</em> right there.”</p><p>Paine turns to face me, lips a thin line and eyebrows arched.</p><p>“Leon and Xion are roommates and best friends,” Lea says loudly from across the room, crossing his legs over the arm of his chair. His feet drag over the floor, and he grimaces before shifting to sit properly, but even then his legs hang off the end. “Leon’s known her longer than any of us have. Longer than anyone, really. They’re a package deal. Can’t have Xion without Leon if you want to know them any better than some random acquaintance. Heck, if Leon weren’t so strict about refusing to date I’m pretty sure they would have gotten married at least ten years ago. They’re blood brothers, they live together, and…” He pauses, taking a long drink from his glass — lemonade? — before his lips twist and he says so, so quietly, “Xion’s the only person Leon will ever let close. Close enough for it to matter, anyways.”</p><p>“How much have you had to drink?” Terra asks suddenly. “There’s no vodka in that, right? You’re driving after this.”</p><p>“Shove off, man. I’m not even buzzed. I’m allowed to be <em>sad</em>, okay? That guy has a <em>monopoly</em> on her emotional depth or some shit. There will <em>never</em> be enough room for someone in her life in any significant way as long as he’s dragging her down.”</p><p>What the fuck? “Jesus Christ, Lea, are you okay?”</p><p>He takes a short breath, then shakes his head. “I just got a really weird text from my girlfriend. Sorry, I’m… I’m gonna step out for a minute. I’ll be back for cleanup; promise.” Grabbing his jacket, Lea steps quickly up to the garage door, pulling it up instead of trying to duck beneath it, then dragging it back down as he leaves.</p><p>Glancing between Ventus and Terra, I ask, “Either of you know what’s going on with him?”</p><p>Terra shrugs but Ventus doesn’t respond, eyes fixed on his phone.</p><p>“Ven?” I prompt.</p><p>No response.</p><p>Turning to Terra, I shrug. “Think he’s setting up a booty call?”</p><p>“Probably,” he replies with a snort. “He finished all the errands he needed yesterday. Now he’s got to get back up to his usual sex intake.”</p><p>Sex intake. Ha.</p><p>“It’s not nice to say shit like that,” Paine says, voice low and consonants sharp.</p><p>Turning, I look them dead in the eye and say, “This guy is the one programmed into my phone as 16,500 condoms. This isn’t speculation or making jokes at his expense; it’s just reality. This guy has more sex in a year than I have in my entire life and we’re very casual about it.”</p><p>Paine glances at him, then back at me, meeting my gaze — okay, we’re entering critical levels of eye contact territory here, mayday, <em>mayday</em> — and says, “Is he Skylar McCartney, the guy who works in Antarctica?”</p><p>“Yeah,” I reply quickly, then turn to Terra, rising quickly out of the chair. “Hey, I’m going to grab a broom and start cleaning up. Looks like the party’s over.”</p><p>Getting up with a grunt, Terra motions to the piñata. “Guess I’ll go ahead and take that mess down, then.”</p><p>Heading up the stairs, I open the door into the living room, stepping out by the couch with the dining room off to my right. Stepping into the kitchen, I go for the broom and dustpan between the fridge and the wall — oh, it’s not together properly-</p><p>No.</p><p>No, no, <em>no</em>.</p><p>I can’t handle this right now.</p><p>Cradling the nearly-falled dustpan in one hand, broom in the other, my eyes fall on the kitchen counter as I rise, sliding briefly over the hardwood floors, the expertly stained cupboards, and the perfectly organized counters with only a single item out of place; a solitary bottle of vodka.</p><p>But Terra put it away when we got home, didn’t he? He put it in the cupboards. Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>. Should I say something? Is it my place? What if I’m overstepping? What if he wasn’t the one who took it out?</p><p>Oh, fuck, it’s open. It’s… shit, okay. Not much is gone. The bottle is cold compared to the rest of the room — glass — and while the seal is broken the vodka inside is nearly up to the neck of the bottle. But it’s not enough. It’s not enough and...</p><p>I don’t know.</p><p>My chest feels empty as I head back to the garage, closing the door behind me — the knob is warm compared to my hands — and make my way down the stairs. It’s so much colder in here than in the house, with the first of the night breezes sweeping through the room to shift the tattered confetti strewn over the floor.</p><p>“Dude, you okay?” That sounds like Ventus.</p><p>I don’t look up. I don’t respond. That probably wasn’t even addressed to me, anyways. Heading over to the mess — the piñata is gone — I drop the dust pan on the ground just as a pale hand shoots out to grab my wrist.</p><p>“You don’t look too good. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Ventus’ hand is small, but his voice is smaller, grip tight and shoes bare inches from mine. “Hey. <em>Hey</em>. Can you hear me? How long has it been since you’ve eaten something?”</p><p>“Dunno,” I manage, feeling a bit numb. I’m so cold. I’m so <em>cold</em>. I’m-</p><p>“Hey, Terra, get one of those protein bars out of her bag, okay? Paine, can you take her home? I don’t think she should be cleaning right now.”</p><p>“Huh? Oh, yeah. What’s going on?” Paine.</p><p>“False Hypoglycemia and a bad case of dissociation, looks like.” Terra this time. He sounds farther away.</p><p>My hands seem farther away.</p><p>Metal clatters. Ventus takes the broom. Terra shoves a half unwrapped protein bar into my hand, draping my bag over my neck and shoulder before guiding me to Paine, who wraps a hand around my arm and tugs.</p><p>As soon as we’re outside — did someone lift the garage door? — it’s like I’ve walked into warm water, but not. Maybe it’s the breeze. Maybe it’s the street lamps. Maybe it’s just the act of being outside. It’s exactly like the sensation of eating room temperature food after letting it sit for too long.</p><p>I’m not even making sense to myself right now.</p><p>“- you listening?” Paine’s talking. Oops. Of course they’re talking. Fuck.</p><p>We’re… We’ve gone half a block. The sidewalk is hard. My head is too light and their hand is so <em>warm</em> and I’m being tugged along like a balloon on a string.</p><p>“Your friends are cool. Especially Terra. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t him.”</p><p>What did they expect?</p><p>“Lea is pretty cool, too, although he seems a little… depressed? But who isn’t these days, I guess. I don’t know. He’s weird, but nice.” They go quiet, then their hand goes tight against my arm. They stop. There’s a few seconds. There’s a bright light above our heads.</p><p>It hurts. My eyes burn and it hurts. So bright. Too bright.</p><p>Their voice is low and so, so soft. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Terra’s drinking again.” That’s not what I was trying to say. Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>. I’m not okay right now. My mom is dying, Terra is drinking, I apparently can’t figure out how to move out of my <em>own fucking house</em>-</p><p>“... Is that bad?”</p><p>Something is on my face. A bug? It’s moving. There’s two- Fuck, I’m crying.</p><p>“Babe-” Their hands on one my face, now, guiding me to look up. The light is bright and it burns but under it their eyes are red and their skin is pale and their hair is fried from bleach and straighteners.</p><p>I’m so cold. I’m so <em>cold</em>. I feel myself moving forward, what I assume is instinct dragging me by a string in my chest toward warmth; toward security. I reach for them. Up. Around.</p><p>Back.</p><p>Down.</p><p>Pain.</p><p>It’s a jolt. Back against the wall, ass on the ground, reality comes to me in a slap of adrenaline. Heart pounding. Hands burning.</p><p>The tunnel in my eyes begins to widen.</p><p>How long have I been dissociating? It all feels like a… foggy memory. The kitchen. The garage. The… street? I’m not sure. Right now we’re on my front porch. The lights are on; the night is cooling quickly; my hands are scraped and burning; Paine is shaking.</p><p>Paine is… <em>shaking</em>?</p><p>They’re flush to the far wall of the porch, mouth slack around quick, shallow gasps. Pale hands have balled into fists against the siding. Their legs and arms visibly tremble.</p><p>Tears fall by my feet that are not mine.</p><p>“I h- have t- t- to g- go,” they stutter out, turning away and sprinting down the sideway, away from the house and away from me.</p><p>And then they’re gone.</p><p>My head is still. There’s no whirring thoughts or questions. No confusion.</p><p>It takes me a long time to stand. A long time to dig out my keys and get my hands to hold them right to open the door. Letting myself in, I lock the door behind me and head straight to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes and belongings, taking slow bites of the protein bar that sits like iron in my stomach as the water runs, slowly warming, in the shower. As soon as it’s hot I abandon the bar and climb inside, sitting in the tub, soap hot on scraped hands, warm only where the drops touch me, and one thought in my head.</p><p>Something happened to Paine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Blind Rage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay. I’ve got a few chapters done in advance that just need to be edited before going up, but y’all know the state of the world right now. It might be a bit. Thanks to SheiksLeopardThong for editing this chapter and Arnaud’s constant companionship.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Friday, August 13th</strong>
</p><p>There's something especially heinous about waking up to a phone call at — what does my phone say? 2:43AM? <em>Two-forty-three</em> in the <em>fucking</em> morning? Who the <em>fuck</em> calls at-</p><p>Ah.</p><p>
  <strong>Paine Yeo Calling Answer | Reject</strong>
</p><p>It should be simple. Answer. Talk to them. Find out why they ran out.</p><p>But I don’t want to.</p><p>Maybe that makes me mean. Maybe that makes me selfish. But the fact is it’s 2:43AM on a Friday, I have to be up for work in a few hours. Sure, my partner shoved me to the ground when I went for a hug during a dissociative episode less than six hours ago but I just… I want some space.</p><p>But part of being an adult in an adult relationship is talking when the other person is ready, I guess, so here goes nothing.</p><p>I tap the screen to answer, lifting my blankets over my head and hiding under the covers like it’ll stop this conversation. “Hey,” I say.</p><p><em>“Hey.”</em> Their voice is too soft. Too low. There’s a crack in the tone of the last bit of the word, followed by a cough, and then a lower, <em>“I’m sorry.”</em></p><p>Of course they are. Pushing the blankets back as the air goes stale — I feel like I’m going to suffocate if I keep it over my head — I pull the phone away from my ear a bit. Paine’s voice is too loud after so much silence. God, my tinnitus is going <em>nuts</em>. Is it the stress? It’s an intense, buzzing pressure inside and all around. Putting one hand over my free ear, I drum my fingers over the back of my head as I lower my phone volume with the other as a bit. As the pressure begins to ease, I turn on my side, resting the phone on my head. “You wanna tell me what all that was about?”</p><p>When Paine speaks again, it’s still too loud. It’s not getting any quieter, is it? Pulling the phone away from my ear, I hold it at a distance.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m really sorry, and I can’t… I don’t want to explain, okay?”</em>
</p><p>Well I don’t want to have this conversation, but here I fucking am. But I shouldn’t say that. Just because I’m taking a step doesn’t mean they have to. Besides… they’re younger than me. I want to tell them they can keep their secrets; that they don’t have to tell me. They don’t. But at the same time we need to talk about what’s going to happen if we keep going and they won’t open up to me. I can’t have them push me away every time I try to touch them.</p><p><em>“Did you get in okay?”</em> they ask.</p><p>“Yeah, I got in okay,” I say. I want to swear. I want to scream, really. I want to scream at <em>them</em>. I was having a panic attack and they pushed me to the ground and booked it. But I guess I triggered them and shit happens so I guess I have no fucking ground to fucking stand on and… I just… I wanna scream. But I don’t, because we’re not going to have that kind of relationship if I have anything to say about it. “Are you okay?”</p><p><em>“Not really. I’m…”</em> A whisper. A sigh.</p><p>A sob.</p><p>Easing up in bed, I push the blankets around my hips, taking a long attempt at a calming breath before I ask, “What aren’t you telling me?”</p><p><em>“I’m not ready to talk about it, okay?”</em> Their voice is fast. Maybe panicked. Maybe angry. Possibly both. <em>“Just drop it.”</em></p><p>Then why did you call me? “... Okay.”</p><p>The line goes dead.</p><p>What even was the point of that call?</p><p>God… waking up is going to be a fucking nightmare.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Waking up is a <em>fucking nightmare</em>. Two hours of shallow sleep and then my eyes open and then <em>won’t shut</em>. It’s way too early to go to work. Too early to be rustling around in shared spaces. I start packing my things, for lack of anything better to do. Plans to move aren’t off. This is just a blip.</p><p>Mom must have tucked some boxes behind my door at some point, because there’s a lot of them folded flat. It helps my anxiety a little, even if things are up in the air. It’s a mess when I stop to get ready for the day, check on mom (she’s asleep, but I want to <em>see her</em>,) eat something vaguely resembling breakfast, drop a thermos of chicken noodle soup by mom’s bed for her to have when she needs it, and then proceed to have my body pitch itself into the bathroom and anxiety-vomit when she doesn’t respond to me trying to shake her awake. But she’s warm and her heart is beating and she’s breathing so I pony up and go to work.</p><p>A hydroxyzine and a bus ride later, I’m ready to scream at a room full of people in yoga pants, unnecessarily tight tank tops, and bleached blonde hair pulled up into intentionally messy buns. If one more person says “namaste” to me I’m going to puke on them. I added yoga classes ‘cause it’s good for physical rehab, not to hang out with middle class Overtly Christian Soccer Moms who insist on saying “What would Jesus do?” and “You must be a good Christian,” every other sentence when I am <em>visibly and openly Jewish</em> before heading off to a fucking mani-pedi.</p><p>The hydroxyzine kicks in a bit too hard — probably because that’s what happens when you take it on an empty stomach. And it’s just…</p><p>It’s terrible.</p><p>Life is terrible.</p><p>I hate this.</p><p>Why do people do it? Why does everyone… Why do we do this?</p><p>I don’t think I can handle this today.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The last class gets out a bit early, everyone losing their energy a little early, attention waning, so we call it. After everyone’s gone I give the studio an extra wipe down before counting the till. It’s stored in the safe, the studio is locked, and I head out. The bus is clean and smells faintly of something sweet — the faded remnants of too-strong perfume, or maybe a dropped bit of pie — and it gets even stronger as more and more people board the bus.</p><p>Then comes a man with strong cologne. It <em>burns</em>. My eyes. My nose. My throat. My chest aches as it fills my stomach and turns my guts, my cold hand clamping over my nose as I yearn for a bit of fabric to breathe through. A scarf. A stuffed animal. Anything.</p><p>I hit the button for the next stop. We’re there in a few short minutes. Gravity seems tricky as I lurch out the door, head light and stomach inverted from a scent once designed to overpower the rot of death. Cologne is not made for a society of working noses.</p><p>At least, not my nose.</p><p>Air is heavy and it burns until it doesn’t. And then it’s proper air again. It doesn’t make me want to vomit, even as my head pounds. Pulling my jacket tight, zipping up the front, I turn my attention to the street I’ve landed on. There are high bushes, and a fence at their back. The rich part of town. Why did I get off here, of all places? It’s just one large winding street, with a mansion that takes up what would be three square blocks.</p><p>No one really talks about the millionaires in town. At least, no one talks to <em>me</em> about them. There are half a dozen homes with occupants I’ve never recognized, or never bothered caring about. They aren’t part of my life. I don’t need to curry favor with them or ask for donations. There’s no part of their world that I am vaguely acquainted with. No part that I want to be acquainted with. I don’t want to know people whose resources sit uselessly in the bank doing no good to anyone. Instead they build nice houses that drain resources from the city and keep the Restoration Committee far from poor areas. They patrol the well protected houses of potential donors instead of those actually at risk of being attacked by Heartless.</p><p>But I keep looking.</p><p>There’s a plaque and a buzzer — the kind to call inside the house, no doubt to open the massive gate that leads up a long, winding path towards the mansion in the distance. There are tall, decorative grasses lining the path and stone pathways that break through to ponds in the distance. There’s no flat, perfectly mowed grass. No bland, nude, armless statues. There are trees heavy with apples, and it looks so… peaceful. Not the house of a millionaire. I’d think it was abandoned if it weren’t for the plaque.</p><p>Canard.</p><p>I’d heard the name a few times as a kid in church, before Terra stopped going. They’d served in the second war; had a family; founded the town. They were the “Empty Nesters.” It was a strange phrase. One I had fixated on, and when I got home I had asked mom what it meant and she said their children were grown and gone.</p><p>When she asked who it had been about, she sat me down and told me their children were dead.</p><p>I had taken my distance from their tragedy for granted. Big surprise; I was six. What am I supposed to do? Feel their pain?</p><p>The ground feels heavy under my feet, and maybe I’m a judgemental shit for my first goddamn thought being that these are horrible people. Maybe I’m just as prejudiced as the people I’m wary of. Who’s to say? There’s no such thing as a truly impartial judge. And if such a person existed, I wouldn’t want to know them.</p><p>And even then, just because they’ve experienced loss doesn’t make them good people.</p><p>But their home really is beautiful.</p><p>A cold breeze kicks up. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk quickly down the street in what I hope is the direction of my home. The sun is bright and it hurts. Pushing my sunglasses further up my nose, I squint down the street. If I can’t find a familiar street sign in five minutes, I’ll use my phone’s GPS.</p><p>A couple in shorts and tank tops pass me, staring curiously. Maybe they know me. I’m pretty memorable. I must be a sight, bundled in a leather jacket, hoodie, torn jeans, leggings, heavy boots, and a hat in the dead of summer. But with a high of 78° today is not my definition of warm. It is summer, the breeze is a cool 65°. It raises goosebumps on my arms, and I can barely feel my feet. Sometimes I wonder if maybe it’s a circulation or a thyroid issue. But the doctors already weighed in and the truth came out; when I was sixteen I decided eating was gross, so for the rest of my life I will be cold.</p><p>That’s something they don’t tell you about eating disorders.</p><p>I walk faster.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mom is asleep when I get home. She made it to the couch at some point, curled up between two large pillows and beneath a plush blanket. She looks so small like this.</p><p>I wonder if I’ll look like this someday. Delicate. Soft. Tired.</p><p>Peeling off my jacket, shucking my shoes, and hanging my backpack next to my keys on the hooks by the door, I settle into place beside her and crawl beneath the blanket.</p><p>There’s a soft moan. Then she shifts. “Hey baby girl,” she says.</p><p>“Hey, mom,” I whisper back. Curling my feet up onto the cushions, I rest my head against one bony shoulder. “Sorry to wake you.”</p><p>She grumbles. Shifts again. Straight hair brushes against my face; it’s one of her wigs. Was she expecting company? “What day is it?” she asks.</p><p>“Uh… It’s around five-thirty.”</p><p>“Not the time, the <em>day</em>. Mon<em>day</em>, Tues<em>day</em>,” she emphasizes softly.</p><p>Day? Shit. How many lunches were in the fridge this morning? Lots, and the last class I taught was yoga, which means it’s, “Friday.”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do you have anything to do tonight?”</p><p>Do I? Reaching into my back pocket, I pry my phone out between my butt and the cushion, unlocking it with a thumbprint. Three taps later I’ve got my calendar up. Today just has the work alert as well as the note that Ventus is in town. But yesterday says Terra’s birthday and- Fuck, right. <em>Right</em>. I was going to break the news today. Nine-thirty. Should have put it in my phone, dammit. Adding it to the calendar with an alert just in case I forget again, I lock my phone and ask, “I’ve got a thing. Do you… uh… Do you mind if I tell my friends what’s going on? I mean, it’s your health stuff.”</p><p>She laughs. It’s light and tired and a little bit amused. “Go ahead and tell them, baby girl. Just try to be home by eleven.”</p><p>“Why? What happens at eleven?”</p><p>Lips, dry and soft, press against my forehead, then pull away. “My new DSPs will be coming tonight, starting at eleven.”</p><p>“Why eleven?”</p><p>“They’ve got one of their employees all prepared to get me started and get the ball rolling with the other DSPs, and he works nights, apparently.”</p><p>Pulling the blanket further up my chest — I’m so <em>cold</em> — I don’t bother saying anything else. What else is there to say? Instead I doze off against her. She’s so warm. So soft. Her hand finds my hair, brushing it away from my eyes and combing through the worst of the tangles.</p><p>She’s my mom.</p><p>How much longer will we have for moments like this?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>At some point I fall asleep, waking to the sun setting, sky a brilliant pink. Pink sky in morning, sailor’s warning. Pink sky at night, sailor’s delight. We’ll have nice weather tomorrow. My phone says it’s 8:22PM, mom is fast asleep by my side, and aside from the white noise of the air purifier in the corner the world is silent.</p><p>It hurts.</p><p>The world is so quiet it hurts.</p><p>There’s an echo inside my ears where sound should be. There’s a gap in my neck where my throat should be. It’s horizontal instead of vertical, and every breath seems to work its way through a maze before it makes it to my chest. Maybe I should shower. Maybe I should brush my teeth. Maybe I should change my clothes. Maybe I should go on a walk, make some tea, or brush my hair.</p><p>Instead I carry mom to bed.</p><p>Instead I pop a hydroxyzine and stare at my reflection as my emotions turn gray.</p><p>Instead I grab a pair of headphones and curl up on my bed, feeling the sweat cling to my body in all the ways that tell me my body is unclean and I want to scrub it off, I want to <em>scrub my skin off</em>, but I don’t.</p><p>By the time I drag myself over to Terra’s, it’s nearly nine. I’m dissociating again. I’m inside my own head, up and back and in, staring out at the world in a fishbowl. I’m walking too fast. I’m seeing too fast. I’m breathing too fast.</p><p>After a block my feet come to a pause, my eyes slip closed, and my breath stills.</p><p>Time passes.</p><p>Then I move again.</p><p>His garden is a lot to handle and the stairs suck, and then I knock. I don’t usually knock. It’s a weird distinction today. Usually I just unlock the key from its holder and let myself in. But the idea of those buttons against my fingers makes me squirm, today. The door hurts, but at least that’s quick. And then Terra is there, letting me in, smiling down at me and motioning to the couch. “You look like you could use a drink,” he says.</p><p>“Some tea would be great,” I say, because I can’t have a beer with these meds in my system.</p><p><em>Fuck, Terra is drinking again</em>.</p><p>Don’t freak out. <em>Don’t freak out</em>.</p><p>Maybe I pass out. Maybe I just zone out. But at one point I make it to the couch, open my eyes, and now Ventus and Lea are here. Leon is stepping through the front door, there’s a steaming cup of tea in front of me, and Terra’s got his arm around my shoulders. He’s a furnace. It’s unfair and it’s wonderful, and every part of me he isn’t touching is cold.</p><p>“Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty,” Lea coos as I rub at my eyes. Is there an eyelash in there? His hand brushes against my forehead, pushing hair aside, and oh — must have been part of my bangs.</p><p>As he draws away, I grab at his fingers and hold them, enjoying the warmth. His hands are so large. The palms are a little sweaty, and they’re rough with calluses. They’re great.</p><p>“I see I am needed,” he laughs. Rising out of his chair — looking more than a little silly, practically unfolding himself from the loveseat with Ventus and towering over all of us before settling on the couch at my side. He’s warm. So, so warm. “Ven, could you grab a blanket? Our ice cube feels fresh out of the freezer.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure thing.”</p><p>The world is black. Are my eyes closed again? But I’m so warm, and so <em>tired</em>. I want to sleep. I want to sleep until everything is better and wake up somewhere I don’t want to scream. Why am I even so tired?</p><p>Must be the hydroxyzine. Goddamn side effects.</p><p>A warm mug — my mug, right, Terra made me tea — is pushed into my hands, and Lea says, “Caffeine, bitch.”</p><p>“Ha,” I say loudly, then take a sip. It’s getting cold, but at least the mug is warm.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>I’m awake, on my second cup of tea, and Leon is casting videos of his cats on the TV when a knock comes from the front door. It’s 9:45PM.</p><p>Here we go.</p><p>Terra gets the door, greeting Paine casually as they step into the house.</p><p>“Sorry I’m late,” they say, brushing pale hair out of their eyes before turning to me.</p><p>In an instant Lea is shooting up from the couch, and the wave of cold is <em>horrible</em>. Get back here, loser!</p><p>Motioning for Paine to take his place, Lea says, “I make way for the official Aqua Warmer. The whole ‘ice cube’ thing is really stupid today.”</p><p>“Aqua Warmer.” I snort.</p><p>He’s not wrong.</p><p>Paine doesn’t respond for a bit, then scoots around the table and settles at my side — not quite touching, not at all effective — while Lea folds himself into the loveseat beside Leon. They look comical on it, sitting at angles so they can both fit between the arms. As Terra settles on my other side — touching, <em>warm</em> — Leon ends the stream.</p><p>Oh, that’s silence.</p><p>“So, you had news?” Leon asks.</p><p>Yeah; my mom’s gonna die.</p><p>I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.</p><p>Terra’s hand on mine is warm, <em>so warm</em>, when he leans forward to whisper, “Hey, you okay?”</p><p>Sound is dying in my throat.</p><p>“You don’t look so good,” Ventus points out from where he’s standing across the table.</p><p>I don’t feel so good. I’m… Fuck, I’m dissociating. I’m inside. I’m to the left. I don’t… If I speak I might <em>vomit</em>. I’m not okay.</p><p><em>I’m not okay</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Mom is dying and I’m not okay.</em>
</p><p>“I think she’s having a panic attack.” The voice-</p><p>Fuck, I can’t tell who that was. My head is… It’s light and it’s heavy and I… It’s sagging. My eyes are on the floor, and I guess my stomach must be with it. Everything’s so-</p><p>“- must be stressing her out.”</p><p>“Oh, and I wonder what that could be. Maybe the obvious.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“I dunno. Why don’t we ask the alcoholic?”</p><p>What? What is this? Is that Paine? Is that-</p><p>“- none of your business.”</p><p>“Really?” That’s Paine. That’s <em>Paine, and</em>- “I’m pretty sure it’s my business if it’s throws my girlfriend into a fuckin’ dissociative episode.”</p><p>Terra’s voice is high, but even as he says back, “If Aqua were freaking out about that, she would have told me herself.” Oh no. Oh, no-</p><p>“You sure? ‘Cause that’s all she fucking said last night when I walked her home. ‘Terra’s drinking again.’ Don’t you have an anger disorder? What the fuck are you thinking?”</p><p>There’s a pause before he answers. “That it’s my decision, I’m an adult, and it doesn’t concern you.”</p><p>“The fuck it doesn’t concern me-”</p><p>My attempt to find my voice comes out as a squeak. “Paine, don’t-”</p><p>“Don’t what?” they snap.</p><p>Everything <em>shrinks</em>. <em>I</em> shrink. My body is cold, my head is a brick, and I just… Air. There’s no more air. How have we run out of air?</p><p>
  <em>They keep burning the Amazon.</em>
</p><p>“Don’t what? Don’t stand up for your feelings? You’re doing a bang-up job doing it for yourself, you know.”</p><p>“What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t attack her!” Leon? Ventus? Who’s talking?</p><p>I can’t breathe.</p><p>“I’m not attacking her; I’m calling her out.”</p><p>“That’s not a callout and you know it. Stop acting like a child.”</p><p>“Oh, so I’m a fucking child, now? Why, ‘cause I’m younger than you? You’re the one whose friends fuckin’ tiptoe around you.”</p><p>Terra must have been the one to call them a child. He can’t… He can’t have an episode.</p><p>I can’t stop him like this.</p><p>“You don’t get to talk about that.”</p><p>Getting my head up is a nightmare, but then I can see. The room is dark. It’s <em>dark</em>. It’s nighttime. The sun is down. It’s almost ten. But the lights are on and it shouldn’t be this dark. This is <em>bad</em>. My hands are cold. My hands are so cold… and Paine’s arm is <em>hot</em>. “Knock it off,” I say.</p><p>They yank away, shooting me a <em>look</em>. Tight eyes. Tight lips. Since when are they standing? Everyone’s standing, though. Terra, Lea, Ventus — everyone looks ready to <em>fight</em>. But we don’t fight here. We don’t- And now Paine’s face turns back to Terra, hands balling into fists at their sides. “They’re all fucking afraid of you, aren’t they? It took me <em>months</em> to get Aqua to introduce me to you. Is that very adult? To have to screen each and every interaction with someone like you’re interviewing for a fucking nanny?”</p><p>What are they saying? What are they <em>doing</em>? “You need to <em>stop</em>.” It comes out as a squeak.</p><p>Paine turns back to me. Their eyebrows have snapped together, and their mouth is set in a grim line.</p><p>This was a mistake. Or maybe this — this meeting, my news — isn’t a mistake, but maybe bringing Paine in so soon was a mistake.</p><p>Letting them get away with stuff because they’re younger was a mistake.</p><p>Trusting them with Terra was a mistake.</p><p>How much of our time was a mistake, and I just didn’t want to see it?</p><p>There’s a sound cue that I miss, or something else, but Paine whips around, and as I follow the movement to see Terra halfway to the hall they shout, “Don’t walk away from this you <em>fucking coward</em>.”</p><p>The room is too small the ceiling is too close and darkness seethes around Terra as a physical presence as air hisses around the room.</p><p>Meeting Paine was a mistake.</p><p>There’s movement, but I’m too slow to join, half asleep on grief and hydroxyzine. Too slow to process as bodies all converge upon a single point. And yet there is no ignoring the wail that breaks through the room and makes my entire body <em>ache</em> with the way it twists and malforms the moment it leaves Terra’s mouth, eyes the shimmering yellow of one who has manifested Darkness.</p><p>They’re shouting, now. Terra is screaming over them, and Paine brings a fist back and catches him across the face before he stoops down and shoves his shoulder into their stomach. Ventus drops to the ground, clamping his arms around Terra’s legs to keep him in place as Leon grabs Terra around the stomach and Lea goes for Paine. All at once they separate, and all at once they don’t. Terra’s elbow swings back, catching Leon in the solar plexus and throwing him back. Paine snaps an arm out, catching Lea in the throat with a fist and dropping to the floor, right onto Ventus.</p><p>As Paine recovers on the floor, I rush forward to grab them. To drag them back and away from Terra before they can do any more damage. But they’re up before I’m there, charging Terra’s stomach and ramming into him from the front.</p><p>He doesn’t even stagger. Taking Paine by the shoulders, he throws them back into me. Their bones are sharp and the couch is soft as I sink into it. I’m too tired for this. Not <em>awake</em> enough for this.</p><p>Ventus leaps up and grabs Terra around the arms, but the best he can do is swing. He’s too small for anything effective from this angle. It’d be funny if we were in the park. If we had a picnic and Ventus was joking about something. If Terra’s eyes weren’t glowing yellow and his mouth open, screaming things that might be profanity or insults if we could hear them over the pops of our ears as the pressure shifts in the living room.</p><p>Paine moves. I try to grab them, but my arms are swatted away, and they move. They’re up, and then they’re up to Terra, and they’re up in his face. They’re striking at his cheeks and his stomach. Lea and Leon are back up, taking each of Terra’s arms and trying to ward Paine off. To stop them. They’re all up.</p><p>And then they’re down.</p><p>Lea’s thrown to the side, landing hard on the table. Ventus falls to the floor. Leon slams into the kitchen dividing wall. Terra’s arm comes up in a grand angle, and then...</p><p>It’s one slap across the face. A single, open-handed strike that throws Paine to the floor.</p><p>Here it comes. The adrenaline.</p><p>Terra brings his leg up to stomp down, knee high in the air with the intent of dropping it on Paine’s chest. There’s no telling how much damage he could do when they’re prone like this. Fractured ribs are just the start of it. Shattered bones. Punctured lungs. If he went for the face he could blind them. There’s really no telling what he could do in his rages. Death isn’t out of the question.</p><p>Which is why I’m always here.</p><p>The adrenaline hits. Snapping up from the couch, I kick the front of his knee, throwing him back in a brief stagger. But it won’t last long, so I grab his arm by the wrist, pulling him forward while he’s off balance to step around him. I swing my arms under and around his shoulders, pressing my hands against the back of his neck in a full nelson. For a moment that feels too long, I brace myself. A quick breath. My fingers dig into stiff brown hair. It tickles my face. Clenching my stomach, I heave back and down, dragging him down to my level and off his balance.</p><p>He screams as I drag him toward the hall. I don’t listen to anything he says. Nothing that comes out of his mouth right now matters, anyways. The floor is cold as I drag him past the bathroom. He tries to thrash, but my elbows are locked. Turning to push my back against the second door on the right, I drag Terra into the room for moments like these. Red padding; no windows; no furniture; his safe room. The single light in the center — stronger than the ones in the main rooms, 200 Watts, industrial grade cage — diffuses the Darkness that bleeds off him, scattering it into a thin mist. Then, shifting us around to place him in the room and myself by the door, I release him. Placing my foot against his back, I shove him further inside.</p><p>When I close the door behind me, there’s the deep echo of an impact as the handle shakes in my hand and the lock engages.</p><p>I turn.</p><p>There is carnage.</p><p>There’s a hole in the wall just outside the kitchen archway. Not sure when that happened. Ventus is on the floor, still. Leon is getting up.</p><p>Paine is on the ground. They look scared, clutching their head and breathing hard.</p><p>But I don’t care how Paine feels right now.</p><p>“Hospital.”</p><p>My attention snaps to Lea as he lays prone against the coffee table. The skin of his lower arm has turned a bright red, and his upper arm-</p><p>“Give me your keys; I’ll drive you,” Leon offers, holding out a hand.</p><p>Lea cradles his injured arm with his right — fuck, he’s left handed, this could be <em>bad</em> — and his leg jerks slightly. “Front left pocket.”</p><p>I turn away as they get things sorted and head out, because Paine is on the floor, staring up at me like I’m some horrendous beast.</p><p>There’s the click of the door — Lea and Leon probably just left — and the thump of Terra in the safe room.</p><p>“What just happened?” Paine asks.</p><p>Bold question. “You need to leave.”</p><p>A pause. Their expression is incredulous, mouth lax and eyebrows tight together. Cheek a bright red from the impact of Terra’s palm — thank fuck it was open-handed; he’d never forgive himself otherwise — their words are a bit slurred as they ask, “What are you talking about? He just <em>manifested Darkness</em>. We need to call someone.”</p><p>“Leave,” I tell them again, and the words feel like they’re popping in my lungs like bubble wrap. It’s not a pleasant sensation.</p><p>“But he attacked-”</p><p>“Get out.” Can’t be any clearer than this. But the air is thin like it was before, and I’m not sure I can say this again.</p><p>Paine’s jaw drops. Their eyebrows draw together, hand waving toward the safe room as their eyes narrow. “I can’t <em>believe</em> you right now! <em>He attacked first</em>. He <em>manifested Darkness</em>. He could have <em>killed</em> us.”</p><p>Ventus’ voice is firm and clear in that way it’s always been since he was a kid, and there’s no animosity in his voice as he simply says, “He wouldn’t have hurt anyone if you hadn’t intentionally set him off.”</p><p>They turn to face him, tone low as they snap, “Making him face the consequences of his actions is not intentionally setting him off.”</p><p>“Making him face the consequences of his actions is one thing; doing it in a way that creates more, unnecessary consequences is another.” His expression is blank, at best. Mouth limp, eyes partially shuttered in something that looks like boredom, Ventus looks up at Paine and speaks with a particular phrasing that sounds… The words are low, but the ends of them are high. Is he being… condescending? “It is up to us to respond calmly and rationally as adults in order to actively prevent completely avoidable consequences for everyone, which is why we all have to screen the people we want to introduce to Terra. If they refuse to understand the situation and react inappropriately, this can happen.”</p><p>Paine looks ready to riot.</p><p>Finally, the adrenaline seems to fade. My hands still — how long have they been shaking? — and the room is so <em>cold</em> and I’m so <em>tired</em>. It seeps into me, muscles limp, bones <em>aching</em>.</p><p>“What was the news?” Red contacts have turned on me, and Paine’s lips are twisted. Why aren’t they leaving? They’ve been told to leave. Do they want to stay? What point are they trying to prove? This is too much.</p><p>What news was it again? I got everyone…</p><p>Right.</p><p>Mom’s dying.</p><p>I want them to leave. Maybe I should feel angry or indignant at this. If anyone else had done what they just did, I’d probably be beating them into the floorboards right now, but I just want them gone. My lungs ache as I take a breath, and it hurts a little bit to say, “You don’t need to know.”</p><p>“But you got us all together.”</p><p>“It doesn’t concern you anymore.”</p><p>Their eyebrows finally pinch apart at my words, then screw back together. Fury? Confusion? Despair?</p><p>Makes me wonder what my face is doing right now. Do I look angry? Sad? Happy? Scared? What can Paine tell in my face even as I stare at their nose to avoid proper eye contact?</p><p>A pause. An audible breath. “Are you breaking up with me?”</p><p>Obviously. But there isn’t enough air for that right now. I’m not… I can’t… If I spoke right now, I’d probably throw up. My throat is tight, my face is hot, and I want to pass out on the spot, but if I do that all my problems will still be here.</p><p>Either the silence has stretched too long or Paine finally got a clue, ‘cause they walk over to the front door, opening it wide and staring out into the garden. But before they go they ask, “So I take it I’m not going to meet your mother tomorrow?”</p><p>What? What game are they playing? That was cancelled. They know it was cancelled. What is going on? Was that not clear or is Paine just trying to get one more guilt trip in before they leave?</p><p>I’m confused.</p><p>And then they’re gone, and it’s just me, Ventus, and Terra slamming into the walls in the safe room, just like normal. This is one of those times I think I should be sad. That I should grieve for the situation. But even though it just happened I feel so disconnected. It could be due to Autism, anxiety, or the hydroxyzine, but I don’t. I just… I don’t.</p><p>“Another one bites the dust,” Ventus says, closing and locking the front door behind my latest failed relationship.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Blackout</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again to Sheiksleopardthong for editing this chapter and Arnaud for constant companionship.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Still Friday, August 13th</strong>
</p>
<p>Terra is in his safe room.</p>
<p>Paine is gone.</p>
<p>Everyone is gone except me and Ventus.</p>
<p>We sit and wait on the couch. Half an hour, or possibly closer to twenty minutes. But eventually things go quiet, the air pressure evens out, and there’s a round of pounding from the safe room. Four quarter notes, four eighth notes, two quarter notes. My mind sings along even though I don’t want it to.</p>
<p>
  <em>Blackout, blackout. Forces you to lash out.</em>
</p>
<p>Ventus gets up before I can, crossing the room and punching the code into the keypad on Terra’s safe room before pushing it open. For a long moment he stares up, no doubt at Terra, then says, “You’re a mess.”</p>
<p>“I feel like one,” is the low reply. Then he steps out, and that’s not an understatement. His cheeks are swelling, and there’s a cut above one of his eyebrows that’s been smeared with dried blood. Did Paine catch him with a nail? He collapses on the couch, face lolled back to point toward the ceiling as he closes his eyes and asks, “What happened?”</p>
<p>“Paine picked a fight. You blacked out, manifested, punched a wall, and threw Lea. They’re all gone, now. Leon took Lea to the hospital.” Ven’s summary is far calmer than it should be.</p>
<p>Terra’s eyes open, and like this — pointed away from me — they’re easy to look at. To stare at the deep, dark blue as they fix on the ceiling. “Is he okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. It’s just his arm. Leon texted me from the hospital. It’s a clean break; nothing serious. He’ll be fine in a few weeks.”</p>
<p>His eyes close, and the lashes are so long they touch the skin under his eyes, nearly reaching his cheeks. “That’s good,” he breathes. “What about Paine? I thought they knew about me.”</p>
<p>Clearing my throat, I sit up a little straighter on the couch. The cushions groan, and the material scrapes against my arm as I adjust. “They did. I just don’t think they took my warnings seriously. I’m…” I want to say I’m starting to think they didn’t take anything I said seriously.</p>
<p>I don’t.</p>
<p>“I’d like you guys to leave, so I can call my psychiatrist,” Terra says after a moment, and I want to say a lot to this. That it’s late. The clinic isn’t open, and he’ll have to use a special line. That Dr. Corazza is probably sleeping right now. That he should talk to us and work through his feelings and be open about his frustration.</p>
<p>But we’re not qualified to help him right now.</p>
<p>Ventus nods, then stands up from the loveseat. “I’ll go downstairs and put some headphones on. Later, Aqua.” He lifts a hand in farewell before heading into the hall. How can he be so unflappable? Or maybe he’s the only one really used to these lives of ours, even after all these years. He was always good at adapting.</p>
<p>I go to stand, but a hand is on mine. It’s big, heavy, warm, and very much Terra’s. As soon as the basement door shuts behind Ventus in the distance he says, “I don’t want Paine around. If you’re spending time with them, don’t drop by. They aren’t welcome here.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to worry about that.” It’s all too easy to say at first, but my voice cracks at the end of it.</p>
<p>He doesn’t look at me as he asks, “Did you break up?”</p>
<p>Did we? They said all that stuff at the end about not meeting my mom. “Probably,” I say instead.</p>
<p>There’s a moment of almost-silence where he takes one of those calming breaths of his, and then he says, “Okay.”</p>
<p>And then I leave. I get up, pull on my jacket, and leave. Out the door, down the stairs, between the bushes, and out onto the street.</p>
<p>There’s a van in front of my house, and- Shit. Shit, eleven o’clock. Right. What time is it? Digging out my phone, I click one of the volume buttons and the analog clock appears on the otherwise dark screen.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Friday August 13th 11:16PM</strong>
</p>
<p>Shit.</p>
<p>I wouldn’t be able to run even if I wanted to, so I walk over. It’s an awkward few minutes, staring at the figure on my porch as I walk oh-so-slowly back into my nightmare of a personal life.</p>
<p>As I approach and the figure comes into view I realize they’re masculine, wearing an old white shirt, khaki shorts, and old sneakers in the same ugly brown. But as he turns his cheekbones are high, his complexion is clear, his skin is pale, and his eyes are a big, bright blue. He’s not attractive. His features are a bit too sharp for me to find him attractive: sharp nose, sharp chin, sharp eyes. He’s a blond haired, blue eyed white man with plain clothes that betray no personality, and he nods when he sees me approach. “You must be Aqua.”</p>
<p>Freezing in place, I glance between the man and the door.</p>
<p>“Gonna need some form of confirmation on that, verbal or otherwise,” he says. He looks young. Early twenties?</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m Aqua Toyoguchi.” Maybe I don’t come across as completely awkward, but there’s no helping my default setting.</p>
<p>He nods again, then says, “I’d shake your hand, but after the pandemic last year we aren’t permitted to. My name is Myde O’donohue. I’m a DSP with the Happy Glen Supported Living Agency. We’re sorry for the late notice, but considering the circumstances- Your mother advised us to show up around this time so we could get started.”</p>
<p>Fuck. I was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago to let these guys in. “Yeah, sure. Sorry about that,” I say, stepping around him to the door.</p>
<p>“You’re fine. We’re paid by the hour, anyways.”</p>
<p>We? Does he mean people at the agency or is there another person?</p>
<p>Sliding my key into the lock, I say, “Let me just confirm this with my mom really quick,” because a little caution is good and I don’t remember the name of the company that’s supposed to be coming. Did she even tell me? Does she even know?</p>
<p>“Of course,” Myde says. His voice is high. Cheerful? Or faux cheerful? Opening up the front door, I step inside and close it quickly behind me. The house is dark, but I don’t turn any lights on as I head to mom’s room. I can see just fine, anyways.</p>
<p>It’s only daylight that gives me trouble.</p>
<p>Adjusting my sunglasses where they hang in the V of my shirt, I head into mom’s room, knocking on the wide open door.</p>
<p>Thankfully, this is all it takes to wake her. Her mouth opens and closes several times before she turns to me. “Baby girl?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Hey mom,” I greet softly, stepping up to her bedside. “What the name of the company you hired to take care of you?”</p>
<p>“Super…” She pauses. “Something Glen. A positive word, and then Glen.”</p>
<p>“Happy Glen?”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes. Happy Glen Supported Living Agency. Are they here? What time is it?”</p>
<p>Heading back out into the hall, I call back to her, “Just after eleven. I’ll let them in.” The living room is cold — is the heater off? — and when I open the front door to let Myde in, there’s a wall of warm air that washes over me, and it’s so relieving.</p>
<p>As Myde steps in, he grins. “It’s nice and cool in here.”</p>
<p>Occasionally I wonder what it must be like to have a normal body temperature.</p>
<p>He smiles at me, lips pink and shiny even in the low light. “After Dilan and I are done setting up all the equipment for your mother-” A pale thumb is jerked out the door, drawing my attention to a large man pulling poles and monitors out of a van. “- I can give you a rundown on what to expect from your mother’s DSPs.”</p>
<p>Nodding along is really all I can do, aside from stepping out of the way. I quarantine myself to the kitchen to keep out of the way, making myself a cup of coffee, heavy on the milk, as they ferry things into the house into my mother’s room. There’s an IV stand, a number of boxes, a monitor or two, stands for them — I lose track after a while. It’s all heavily used equipment. None of it looks new. This is both sad and relaxing. This is equipment that has stood the test of time. It’s not experimental. They know it works. It’s also old and probably out of date. Then again, it’s not like we’re trying to save her life or anything. Just…</p>
<p>Keep her comfortable.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>After Midnight, Saturday, August 14th</p>
<p>By the time I go into the room, Myde and Dilan have set my mother up with an IV drip, hooked her into two different monitors, and propped her up on a large, fluffy pillow that keeps her firmly diagonal. There are even chairs by the bed — one by the door, and another by the window. Myde is sitting there, talking to mom with a wide grin.</p>
<p>“- pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Toyoguchi. I’ll be your night shift, Sundays through Thursdays.”</p>
<p>Mom smiles over at him, looking much happier on her pillow. “Are you the one they said they were specially assigning to my case?”</p>
<p>His grin shrinks at this but it… It doesn’t. It’s not…</p>
<p>It’s not something I’m used to. His lips have a gentle quirk to them. His eyes are slightly shuttered, crinkling at the corners despite his youthful face. The expression ages him. The expression is soft and gentle and <em>fond</em>, and something in me says that this is sincerity <em>and</em> an act at the same time. A rehearsed moment of comfort.</p>
<p>There’s a lot of thoughts in my head all at once. That he’s suited for a job like this. That no wonder he’s been assigned to a dying woman. That his bedside manner is impeccable. How does one control their face like that? How does one manage an expression like that? I don’t know. I have no idea.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he says. “I was specially reassigned for this. I look forward to working with you, Ma’am.”</p>
<p>“You hardly look old enough to have twenty-five years of experience under your belt,” my mother drawls. There’s disbelief in her voice, but she’s got this amused smile that lights up her wrinkles.</p>
<p>He shakes his head, laughs, and says, “I’m forty-six, ma’am.”</p>
<p>Excuse me?</p>
<p>Mom’s hand comes over her mouth to hide a melodramatic gasp. “<em>No</em>.”</p>
<p>“Baby face and good genetics. I still get carded.”</p>
<p>There’s no way this guy is twelve years older than me.</p>
<p>I linger in the doorway maybe a bit too long, listening to them chat. Mom talks about her knitting, and Myde talks about picking up sitar in his teens because his mother hated his at-the-time-girlfriend’s Bollywood movies (hinting that she was quite racist without outright saying so. Nice rebellion). He offers to play for her sometime. She says she’d love that, and falls asleep a few minutes later.</p>
<p>Myde looks up at me.</p>
<p>Shit, why is he looking at me?</p>
<p>He motions to the hall, and I step out. Is it a DSP thing? Am I not allowed in the room or something? But no — he follows me out, mostly closing the door behind him, and he motions for me to follow into the main living area.</p>
<p>I go straight for the kitchen, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard. The rest of my coffee sits abandoned on the counter, but I probably shouldn’t have any more caffeine. It’s too late. “Cocoa?” I offer, holding up the mug for him to see.</p>
<p>“No. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.</p>
<p>Cocoa? He wanted to talk to me about cocoa?</p>
<p>Placing the second cup away, I close the cupboard and grab what I need.</p>
<p>“There are rules to being a DSP. I can’t take anything from here, including food, unless it’s a shared meal. I can’t even use the fridge without your mother’s express permission. If she says so, I can’t even sit on the couch. I am to bring all of my own supplies. I’m not here to cohabitate; I am here to keep her life running. I’m not even allowed to take gifts. Not even after the contract is settled. These rules will apply to all DSPs who come into this house, and you should be aware of them.”</p>
<p>I’m slowly stirring milk into the cocoa mix when Myde pauses to breathe.</p>
<p>This is a lot of information.</p>
<p>“The other DSPs and I will be cleaning her main living areas, including her bedroom and these shared spaces, daily. However, we won’t go into your room or your personal spaces. We aren’t allowed to interact with Alte or you in public unless you make it clear you would like to approach us. More than that, we aren’t allowed to disclose the nature of our relationship. Your mother is allowed to-” He’s losing me. He’s losing me fast. This is too much. “- as the HIPAA protections are there for her to accept or deny.” He takes another breath. Please, take your time. “There’s a lot more, but we’ll keep you informed as things come up. There are rules for contact and how to bathe her, general interactions-” I hope they’re paid a lot for this. “- how I’m allowed to help her up if she needs it, but you don’t need to know those right away. Some of them you don’t need to know at all.” Thank fuck for that. “For now, because you were not part of the negotiations but you are still part of this household, I need to know any rules or allergies that we need to be wary of. We have access to your mother’s files, but not yours. It’s best we don’t step on any toes.”</p>
<p>It takes a while to process. Honestly, most of it doesn’t. But after a solid thirty seconds or so I manage to make heads and tails of what he generally asked, and I say, “No severe allergies for me, but I do have a friend over often who has a deadly allergy to corn. I’ll give you guys some warning, though.”</p>
<p>Fuck, I’m tired.</p>
<p>Popping the mug in the microwave, I set it to go for two minutes before putting the milk back in the fridge. Is this a good idea? This much dairy might make me sick this late. But maybe the sugar will help me digest it.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is a lot of information, and it’s late.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it is,” I agree just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. Reaching in, I unlock my phone to find a text.</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Are you at home? We need to talk.</em>
</p>
<p>I stare at the text long enough for my cocoa to finish. Popping open the front, I groan.</p>
<p>It’s boiled over.</p>
<p>My phone buzzes in my hand.</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>This is serious.</em>
</p>
<p>I’d hope it was. They shouldn’t be contacting me over a joke right now.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Yes, I’m at home.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Paine Yeo:<br/>I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.</em>
</p>
<p>Should I be doing this? But if I don’t make things clear now, Paine might be the type who won’t leave me alone. They’re already messaging me and it hasn’t even been two hours since I told them to fuck off.</p>
<p>Mopping up the mess in the microwave, I tell Myde that I’m going out.</p>
<p>Maybe I should feel nervous about leaving my mother with him, but I’m going to have to get comfortable with it whether I like it or not.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Paine pulls up within ten minutes, and as soon as I’m buckled in they take off. We don’t talk. The town flies by and then we’re staring down a familiar sign.</p>
<p><em>Radiant Trails</em>.</p>
<p>Everything went wrong here. <em>Everything </em>went <em>wrong </em>here. <em>Everything went wrong-</em></p>
<p>“So what’s the damage?”</p>
<p>What’s the… <em>damage</em>? I laugh. I can’t help it. It kicks its way out of my throat like a jumpscare.</p>
<p>“What?” they ask.</p>
<p>“<em>Damage</em>?” Maybe I’m being condescending, but we’re so past damage right now.</p>
<p>“Well, how’s Terra doing?” they ask, and <em>fuck</em>. They sound like they rehearsed this so many times they’ve given up on making it convincing. Their expression is flat. Their tone is flat. Everything just <em>falls flat</em>.</p>
<p>“You don’t need to know how he’s doing. You’re not going on his property ever again. If he ever has to <em>look</em> at you it’ll be too soon.” Maybe I’m embellishing a little, but I’m <em>angry</em>. I’m angry and the hydroxyzine is wearing off and I’m already starting to shake. I want to <em>scream</em> at them, but I don’t. No one should scream at anyone.</p>
<p>“Of <em>fucking</em> course.” It’s a hiss. It’s a curse — or it could be, if they were any good with spells. The engine cuts out as they turn off the car and cross their arms, attention turning to me.</p>
<p>“What did you think was gonna happen?” Don’t scream. Don’t scream.</p>
<p>Paine’s eyes turn on me — brown, no contacts, stop looking at me<em>, stop looking at me</em>- “I’m talking about whatever the fuck you’ve got going on with Terra. How did you think I’d react when I met the guy you’re in fucking love with? You were all over him. Practically horizontal on him when I got there. How did you think I’d feel, seeing that? All this time whenever he’d call you’d go running to him. We’d be in the middle of <em>fucking</em>, and you’d still answer the phone for him. I never got your full attention the moment his name popped onto your screen.”</p>
<p>What the fuck? “I can’t believe what’s coming out of your mouth right now.”</p>
<p>“You sure about that? Sure you’re not the self proclaimed ‘lesbian’ in love with your best friend? Who’s a <em>guy</em>, in case you hadn’t noticed.”</p>
<p>“I’m not in love with Terra. Jesus <em>Christ</em>.”</p>
<p>Paine’s eyebrows narrow, shifting in their seat to face me as properly as they can. “You say that, but you’ve been with trans women, and you’re with me, and I am very much <em>not</em> a woman, so what’s the truth? You don’t mind a little dick if there’s cleavage involved?”</p>
<p>What the <em>fuck</em>?</p>
<p>“Newsflash; I don’t wear skirts, and I’m going on T soon. How long until top surgery? <em>Bottom</em> surgery? How long until I’m the whole package? How long until the line starts blurring between myself and men for you?”</p>
<p>“That was never an issue, and it was never going to be an issue,” I say, because it’s <em>true</em>. What are they even saying? Besides, this is all over. Why are they doing this?</p>
<p>“Why? Because I’ll always be a woman in your eyes?”</p>
<p>“I don’t see you as a goddamn woman!” It comes out as a snap. I’m angry. I’m so goddamn angry and I don’t want to be here. I never should have agreed to this.</p>
<p>Paine’s voice is lower as they ask, “You sure about that?”</p>
<p>“How long have you been thinking this shit?” This is awfully transphobic for a trans person.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. How long have you been in love with your best friend?”</p>
<p>“<em>I’m not in love with Terra</em>.”</p>
<p>“Really? ‘Cause you don’t seem to care about gender as much as you say you do. Are you really a lesbian? Come on; how do you see me? A man? A woman?”</p>
<p>“<em>You’re a loophole</em>,” I spit at last, turning to stare them down. “You’re a <em>fucking </em>loophole and you know it. That man is basically my brother and I will not have you treat him like that.”</p>
<p>“People aren’t that close with their siblings,” they retort.</p>
<p>Do not punch. My hands are still shaking, and I clench them together on my lap. This isn’t something I can punch my way out of. “You don’t even <em>have</em> siblings.”</p>
<p>Paine leans back against the window, and they snort. There’s this smile, but they’re not happy. It doesn’t reach their eyes. They’re… smug. “Stop dodging the question. You always prioritize him over me. Always.”</p>
<p>How do I make them understand? Should I even try? Are they willing to listen? They seemed willing to listen before, but apparently nothing stuck. “He’s got no one else he can depend on like me. When he’s having a crisis I can’t just leave him.”</p>
<p>“You’re not his mother.”</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to be. I’m just all he’s got.”</p>
<p>“You sure about that?” They hum. Their jaw clenches, then drops open in a soft, “‘Cause it looked to me that there were a few other people at that party aside from us.”</p>
<p>For a moment I’m revving up to tell them that it’s not their responsibility, but I pause. I can hear their reply in my head already; that it’s not mine, either. I would reply that I signed up for this, and they would say that wasn’t my job, and that I’m overstepping in our relationship. Have they been leading my answers? Have they been taking advantage of how I respond to small statements?</p>
<p>How long have they been in control of our conversations?</p>
<p>Or am I just imagining it?</p>
<p>Don’t think about that. Not right now. I can’t think about that… We’ve been focusing on small picture stuff. Details. Reactions. Memories. Emotions. What’s the big picture? What’s the big picture in all this?</p>
<p>“How am I supposed to feel if the person I’m dating keeps running off to someone else’s rescue?”</p>
<p>“Terra and I have three decades of history. If you can’t handle that then this relationship was doomed from the start. You want access to all of me, and I can’t give you that. That’s not how people work, and expecting people to cross their boundaries for you constantly while refusing to give any ground on your own… That’s not good.” I sound calm when I say this, and I’m… I’m starting to disconnect from it all. “To put it lightly, it’s a red flag.”</p>
<p>“Red flag?” they spit.</p>
<p>A bit of saliva hits my cheek. Perhaps that wasn’t the best thing to say.</p>
<p>“<em>He’s</em> the red flag!” Pale hand slapping down on the back of their seat, Paine twists even further to look at me, eyes- <em>Stop looking at me</em>.</p>
<p>I turn and stare pointedly at the glove box as they continue.</p>
<p>“He’s dangerous and you know it. He should be locked up and sedated. If that’s all it takes to set him off then he’s a danger to society.”</p>
<p>It slips out — an old habit, maybe. An old argument with exes and friends. An old fear that had once been paranoia. “Then why don’t you just shoot him, then? That’ll solve things fast enough.”</p>
<p>They’re quiet. I’m quiet. We’re both quiet for a long, long time until they stutter out, “T- That’s not-”</p>
<p>“No, you did. You want him locked up in a room away from all human contact, drugged out of his mind so that he can’t hurt anyone. Take away his job; his friends; his life; his house; his band. Take everything he’s built because you don’t think he’s worthy of it since he has an anger disorder. It doesn’t matter that you couldn’t keep your cool around him for ten minutes. You got along fine at his birthday party because he went out of his way to accommodate you. He extended olive branch after olive branch, and you repaid him by flying off the handle the moment things weren’t going your way. You did that first, Paine. You did that first.”</p>
<p>It’s still quiet as I pause to take a breath. I don’t know what face they’re making. I’m not sure if they’re listening. I kind of don’t care, and as I take another breath I whisper, “You think it’s cool when I punch the guys who catcall me, but that’s because you think I have control of the situation. I don’t. I’m usually having a panic attack when it happens. I just have the frame of mind to use a legal loophole. It’s not appropriate, and I justify it by saying they’re not being appropriate either — that I’m ‘introducing consequences to sexual harassment’ — but the fact is I could de-escalate if I wanted. But I don’t, and that’s a conscious choice, and the fact is Terra doesn’t have that luxury, and you want to take away his life.”</p>
<p>“That’s not what I’m saying.” Their voice is just as weak as mine. A gasp at best. A whisper at most.</p>
<p>“It’s what you’re doing,” I reply just as softly. “You’re trying to take away his friends. You’re trying to take his support system. You’re trying to take me.”</p>
<p>“So asking you to prioritize our relationship in any way is crossing lines?”</p>
<p>I’m done.</p>
<p>There’s no point in talking. No point in arguing or explaining.</p>
<p>Every moment with Paine has been a waste of time.</p>
<p>The door handle is cold. The air is cold. Paine’s voice is loud as they call out to me, but I ignore them, heading out of the parking lot and into the woods. I ignore the trails. The beaten path won’t take me where I need to go.</p>
<p>They’re calling out that they’ll at least take me home.</p>
<p>I’m never getting in a car with them again.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes two hours for me to get home, my phone buzzing in my pocket with every other step. It’s Paine. Every single message is Paine. Every call. Every text. Every voice mail.</p>
<p>After the first hour I shut it off.</p>
<p>I’ll figure out how to block them later. Might have to look it up.</p>
<p>Eventually I come into the suburbs where I live. I pass the tall houses with their manicured lawns. The beige fences. Bird baths. The occasional hummingbird feeder. But then I’m home. The lawn is getting a bit tall, and the night is warm yet cold. It’s hot on my skin but I’m so cold. The door is hard to open, or are my hands just stiff?</p>
<p>But then I close the door, I’m in the hall, and I’m in mom’s room, climbing into bed with her.</p>
<p>“I’ll be in the living room. Just call me if you need anything,” I hear Myde say — he was there, by her side — and then there’s the creak of a chair and the thump of footsteps and mom is brushing a hand through my hair.</p>
<p>“Hey, baby girl,” she says, voice crackly. I didn’t know she was awake. Not too long ago it took so much to wake her.</p>
<p>They’re already taking such good care of her.</p>
<p>I could never give her this.</p>
<p>Her skin is warm, her hands are soft, and Myde has given her the plush blanket she loves so much. Her wig is even on, immaculately in place, and I wonder if he helped her put it on.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong, Aqua?” she asks, voice gentle the way it is whenever she thinks I’m upset.</p>
<p>I am upset. I’m very upset. “Paine and I broke up.”</p>
<p>Mom’s arms slide around me, but they’re just sitting there. She’s already so weak. Or maybe she’s just tired.</p>
<p>I’ve been too preoccupied with my own shit lately.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>She lets me cry for a long time before she falls asleep. There’s a part of me that feels hollowed out — like I’m about to deflate if I move wrong — but I climb out of her bed anyways. It’s so cold without her.</p>
<p>I wonder what my life will be like when she dies.</p>
<p>Stepping out of the room, I close the door behind me, then finally head into the living room to take off my boots. Myde is there, sitting on the couch. He’s got his phone in his hand, that youthful face of his turning towards me with a grin that looks practiced. “All done in there?”</p>
<p>My voice cracks at first as I answer, throat aching as I clear it. “Yeah. She’s asleep now. Thanks for the… privacy.”</p>
<p>“No problem,” he says, then his hand comes up and there’s… an apple. “I’m just gonna finish my lunch before I head in there. Wouldn’t want to wake her up.” Then his mouth opens wide and god, that sounds disgusting. Chewing sounds so <em>disgusting</em>. The crunch. The squeal of teeth. The <em>moisture</em>.</p>
<p>Throat closing, I fight against a wave of nausea as I step up to the door, unlacing my boots. I need to get out of here, now. They’re off and by the wall in record time. I want to get to my room next, but a question stops me, and I glance back at Myde, words waiting on my tongue.</p>
<p>And he’s staring at me. He’s stopped chewing and he’s staring at me.</p>
<p>Whatever. I’ll ask anyways. “Do you know the other employees who will be stationed here? If they’re any good?”</p>
<p>His head shakes, and his face turns towards the apple. It’s like instant relief, having his eyes off me. “They’re still working through our staff to see who’s available. However, I can tell you that they are trying their best to have female staff assigned here.”</p>
<p>Female staff? “Then why were you assigned here?”</p>
<p>He shrugs, tossing an arm over the back of the couch to turn towards me without really <em>looking</em> at me. It’s… It’s nice. “Your mother is a special case. One I’m more experienced with than most of our other employees.”</p>
<p>“Uh… Special case?”</p>
<p>There’s a pause. A moment where there’s just the crunch of tires as a car revs past the front of the house — the neighbors leaving for an early shift, maybe — followed by lights through the windows and the hiss of oxygen from one of mom’s machines in the next room. For a moment Myde is illuminated by those headlights. It sweeps over his face and fades, leaving us with just the kitchen light. “May I be frank with you?” he asks, expression blank.</p>
<p>Shifting nervously, I say, “Sure. Go ahead.”</p>
<p>“The majority of our company deals with accommodating the lives of disabled adults. Cooking, cleaning, bathing, and even budgeting. Your mother needs hospice care; something that usually has entire facilities dedicated to it. However, the nearest hospice facility is miles out, so occasionally this work comes our way. When it does, they assign me to the job. Every hospice case that has come through our company in the last twenty years, I have had a hand in.”</p>
<p>Every… Every one? Twenty years? How many deaths is that? How many people has this man watched die?</p>
<p>How can anyone do that for a living?</p>
<p>He continues, voice low and even and <em>flat</em>. “Over the next few months we need to figure out what she wants. What she needs. What needs to happen after she passes. We need to get to know her to the point where we’re able to respect her wishes in every capacity after she passes, and when that happens whoever is on duty needs to be able to be calm and collected and unaffected enough to do what needs to be done. Statistically… that happens at night while they’re sleeping and in the early hours of the morning, usually with medical assistance. Both of those fall under grave shift.”</p>
<p>“And that makes you the best man for the job? ‘Cause you work grave shift?”</p>
<p>After a quick shake of the head, he brushes bangs out of his eyes. “That’s why I work a grave shift at all. I used to work swing, and then they moved me to specifically work graves; because I’m the best <em>person</em> for the job.”</p>
<p>I shift again. This is… This is a weird topic. “So… What? You’re the kind of person who can watch someone die and then make the appropriate calls?”</p>
<p>Another silence. No car passes this time. There’s no squeal of tires or flash of headlights; just the steady hiss of the machines in mom’s room.</p>
<p>“You’re Autistic.”</p>
<p>Hey, what the fuck? Where is this coming from? I take a step back — involuntarily — and I’m about to protest before he’s talking again.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to answer. You’re asking a lot of detailed questions, you phrase everything a specific way, you aren’t looking straight at me if you don’t have to, kept flinching while I was chewing, the sunglasses hanging from your shirt are the gray kind — they’re not for fashion, they’re for blocking light — and your fingernails are bitten short. All of those separate are one thing. All of those together is another.”</p>
<p>I haven’t bitten my nails in weeks. How the fuck does he know that? They’re… They’re not exactly even, though. But why does he know so much about-</p>
<p>His nails are bitten, too. Almost to the quick. His hand is still hanging down over the back of the couch, looking bare without bracelets or rings. Why do I think he should be wearing those? He’s dressed so bland.</p>
<p>“I have ADHD,” Myde says, and this… is starting to make a lot of sense.</p>
<p>“Oh,” I say dumbly. Getting less creepy.</p>
<p>He glances back at me — his eyes are so <em>blue</em> — before looking away. “I needed a job when I was twenty-one ‘cause reasons, and this is the only company that didn’t fire me after two weeks. They were really hurting for people, even back when the economy wasn’t trash. Five years into this job I was too lazy to quit, I got a client that had come to us for hospice care.” There’s a pause, and… He’s doing this for me, isn’t he? And possibly for him? Does he know I’ll lose track of what he’s talking about if he keeps going?</p>
<p>For a second he glances over and meets my eyes, then looks away.</p>
<p>He knows.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t the best worker, but I figured out the client didn’t want a deep relationship; mostly just someone they could talk to about death and be in a good mental state when they died. Obviously, that’s what they did. I showed up two hours early that day on accident because I only had analog clocks back then, which I’m not great with, and the DSP was a mess. They couldn’t stop crying long enough to make the right calls, so I opened up the manual the company gave us and did what I could. I handled things and the previous staff went home early.”</p>
<p>Another pause, and I’m so grateful, but I’m so scared. He only has this job because they wouldn’t fire him? What kind of industry is this?</p>
<p>“Everyone seemed so relieved that I was ‘level-headed’ and ‘calm and collected’ when there was a dead body in the next room, but I was just… I didn’t feel the connection. Like, the body was gross, but I didn’t have to touch it. But watching everyone fall to pieces around me and being the only person unaffected… At first I thought something was wrong with me, but when they asked me to go on staff as a grave shift for the next hospice case we got, instead I felt like my ADHD was a superpower. And to be honest, it kind of is.”</p>
<p>Maybe I should sit next to him. Maybe I should stop shifting nervously behind the couch. But I don’t want to move. This is… This isn’t what I expected.</p>
<p>“When someone is dying, they want a distraction. They don’t want to stare death in the face and walk into oblivion; they want to read books, play games, and be as active as they can in their last days. Obviously this changes from person to person, but that’s what I’ve mostly seen. So we play board games. We watch movies. I give them their meds and we have the same conversations over and over again, and I supply them with a shallow relationship neither of us feel, but makes them happy anyways. And when they die in the best comfort my experience can give them, I move onto the next client without pausing. It’s just work. I’m good at it, but it’s just work.”</p>
<p>Again, he pauses, and I ask, “And you never get attached?”</p>
<p>“Nah.” His hand waves dismissively at this, then flops back to the couch. “Everyone’s kind of an alien to me, anyways. You probably know the feeling, since you’re autistic. Sometimes you like some aliens more — sometimes you even get to love them, if they put in the work and you’re lucky — but they’re still just aliens.”</p>
<p>Hesitantly, I have to agree. “It’s like everyone was given a book on interacting and I was the only person without it.” And when I figure something out and try to follow it, they don’t.</p>
<p>“Yeah, and they refuse to share it,” he laughs quietly. “At least they waited until I sought them out before they did the anal probe.”</p>
<p>Oh <em>fuck</em>, I’m losing my shit. I’m laughing. I’m grabbing my stomach and trying to keep quiet because my mom is asleep and I’m just- <em>This was not what I expected</em>.</p>
<p>“Ha. Knew it. Your outfit screams ‘I’m gay, fear me’ at fifty paces, by the way. You pull it off well. Way better than I could.”</p>
<p>“Are you Queer?” I ask, and- Shit, what if he’s one of those “Queer is a slur” people? The exclusionists who don’t like ace or trans people?</p>
<p>He smiles, and… Ah.</p>
<p>Okay.</p>
<p>So Myde is, uh… Myde is hot. You know; for an almost-fifty-year-old.</p>
<p>“Queer as a rainbow unicorn wearing leather at a Pride parade. But, uh…” He clears his throat, glances back at me, then back to the couch. Possibly to the apple in his other hand. “I’m not ‘out’ out yet, so if you could keep that on the down-low that would be cool.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, man. Your secret’s safe with me.” There’s a warm and fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach, now. I don’t think I’ve felt this <em>connected</em> to someone in a long time. Too bad he’s a guy, and working for my mom. “I’ll, uh… I’ll let you eat. I’ve gotta get to bed, anyways. I’ve got work in a few hours.”</p>
<p>He laughs at this, voice quiet. “Yeah, probably for the best. Sleep well, while you can.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Thanks. Night,” I say, heading back toward the hall. The hall is so dark compared to the living area, with only the faint hint of light from the machines in mom’s room. The hiss of her machines. The gentle beep of what must be a heart monitor.</p>
<p>“Hey, Aqua?”</p>
<p>Pausing by the kitchen, I turn to look back at Myde, whose eyes remain fixed on the couch. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Good luck getting over your breakup.”</p>
<p>Guess he heard me talking to mom. “Thanks,” I say, then head into my room. There’s boxes everywhere, but I don’t care. Eventually I pull on my pajamas and fall into bed, listening to Myde move from the kitchen into the hall, then into my mother’s room, then back out.</p>
<p>My mind sticks to what he said. How people are just aliens. Not getting attached.</p>
<p>How that works for him.</p>
<p>But I don’t feel like everyone else is the alien; I feel like <em>I’m </em>the alien. I want to connect. I want to feel what they feel.</p>
<p>I want to get attached.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aiming to release chapters once every two weeks.<br/>Let me know what you think in the comments! Even if it's just to leave another kudo or to say hi.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Alien</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to Arnaud for constant companionship, Sheiksleopardthong for editing, and CapriciousSieve for a last-minute eye.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Same day, early Morning, Saturday, August 14th</p><p>My delicate stomach chemistry is upset by an energy drink sipped over the course of ten hours by the time practice rolls around. I show up early, and Terra’s house is an oven in the best way. It’s a hot day — a high of 87° and a low of 75° — and with brick walls and no air conditioning it. Is. <em>Heaven</em>.</p><p>The front door is wide open when I arrive, propped open with a shoe and inviting a gentle breeze into the house. It’s so warm. So perfectly, flawlessly warm that I slip off my hoodie and shoes before I collapse happily beside Terra on the couch. He’s sprawled out on one end, wearing some of his oldest gym clothes. The shirt is old, though still in good condition, and is easily several sizes too large. It’s from a different time. A time when his parents still lived here. When he didn’t go to the gym, didn’t go outside, and drank so heavily that some days I couldn’t get too close because of the smell.</p><p>These are better days.</p><p>If I lean over and touch the shirt I know it’ll be soft. Plush, even. He’ll also swat me away and tell me it’s too hot for this shit, though he might just take advantage of my cold hands and place them against the back of his neck.</p><p>He takes a deeper breath, then says, “What's up?” and it’s in Spanish today. A “¿Que es la que?” that establishes perhaps a desire for intimacy or privacy.</p><p>“Hola,” I say back, trying to keep the Spanish up, but it’s been a while, and I don’t use it as much as he does. “You look comfortable.” He does not look comfortable. Sweat is dripping from his armpits and staining his clothes. He’s bent at a strange angle and his legs are as far apart as they’ll go, which isn’t saying much since this man is as old and flexible as a 1980’s vibrator. (He probably sees just as much “alone time” as one, too.)</p><p>Terra groans, but otherwise doesn’t respond.</p><p>“Why aren’t you in the… the… <em>fuck</em>… basement?” It takes me a few tries to remember “sótano,” and Terra chuckles as I stumble over the word. Did I say it wrong? Maybe we should talk like this more. I’m out of practice.</p><p>“I’m not in the basement because it feels better if I _. _, _ air out this floor, and I shouldn’t _ the front door open without supervision.” There are words I don’t recognize, but at least I can tell what he’s saying. His head lifts from the back of the couch and-</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Bruises sit on his cheeks and trail down his neck. They’re a deep purple, and one of his eyes is slightly swollen. Paine really did a number on him.</p><p>Maybe it's just easier to speak Spanish with the bruises, since it doesn’t require the jaw to move as much. At least in my experience. Or maybe I’m just hyper-aware ‘cause I had a lisp as a kid.</p><p>Or maybe he’s just doing it ‘cause he feels scared.</p><p>Lifting my legs onto the couch, I curl into the cushions. Is this my fault? “I’m sorry,” I say softly. Maybe too softly. Or maybe I’m being too bold. Who’s to know? Certainly not me.</p><p>There’s one of Terra’s patented breaths, and then he shifts. Feet brushing mine on the cushion, he says, “You didn’t do this.”</p><p>“I brought Paine here,” I point out. “I knew they had a lot of anger in them. I just didn’t think they were the type to…” The type to what? To pick a fight? To escalate? To throw down if needed? To glorify the use of excessive force? That’s exactly their type.</p><p>I knew that.</p><p>I just didn’t want to acknowledge that they wouldn’t be good for Terra.</p><p>“You were lying to yourself. I get it.” Hearing Terra say this is no comfort.</p><p>Sinking further into the couch — I’m starting to get swallowed — I fire back with a, “Stop rubbing off on me,” that’s only half serious.</p><p>He laughs, and there’s a breath where I swear he whispers, “carajo,” and then he’s sitting up. He motions to the kitchen. “Should we go warm up?” he asks, and it’s in English this time.</p><p>Prying myself out of the couch, I follow him down the hall and into the basement. It’s cooler here, the only room with climate control keeping the instruments safe and in tune. As Terra picks up a guitar — his acoustic, not the electric or the one he made a while back — I settle onto the couch and spread out. My phone digs into me at first, so I sit up long enough to pull it out of my back pocket, then lay back down.</p><p>Perched on an amp, Terra checks the tuning of the guitar, then asks, “How’s Paine doing?”</p><p>Crossing my arms over my chest, I let my head hang over the arm of the couch, turning my eyes to the beehive in the back. The blinds are open, putting the backyard on display. “Honestly, who gives a fuck?”</p><p>His fingers must go still because the music stops, and after a moment of silence Terra asks, “Did you guys break up?”</p><p>I want to roll my eyes. “After what happened yesterday, who wouldn’t? Apparently me punching guys who catcall me in the street until my knuckles bleed is cool, but you having a legitimate medical problem is crossing a line.”</p><p>Terra is quiet at this. Should I have told him that? Or should I have kept my mouth shut? “I’m sorry,” he says, and I should have kept my fucking mouth shut.</p><p>“If anything, you did me a favor. Imagine if they pulled that kind of shit further down the line, or after I moved in. This whole thing was a mistake.”</p><p>“<em>Aqua</em>.” It’s a warning. A callout. A scolding.</p><p>And I deserve it. “I shouldn’t have told you.”</p><p>There’s a breath; the deep, long ones of his. The Terra Breath™. I must have made him angry. “You aren’t responsible for their actions, dammit.”</p><p>“I’m responsible for introducing you.” My heart isn’t in it, despite my conviction. We can play this game all we like, but the fact is I didn’t pick someone safe, and Terra paid for it.</p><p>Again.</p><p>I’m so tired.</p><p>Eventually he starts playing again. There’s a song in there somewhere, but I don’t know much about that. I’ve only done vocals, and I have no formal training. I sing what they need me to and know what their parts sound like; I know nothing else.</p><p>We don’t talk for a long time, and then he does. “Does the fact that I’m drinking again scare you?”</p><p>What?</p><p>“Paine was saying something about it before I blacked out.”</p><p>“I-” am absolutely terrified. My head feels heavy from the blood that’s rushed to it, eyes stuck in a stare at the beehive through the glass sliding door for so long, and there’s the rushing whoosh in my ears that kills me a little bit. “It’s your choice. You’re an adult. It’s your decision. It’s your life.”</p><p>“You’re dodging.”</p><p>It’s still not my choice to make. Shifting against the couch, I turn onto my side, dragging my head back onto the arm so I can look at Terra.</p><p>He’s not looking at me, eyes on the neck of his guitar, where his right hand fiddles with the tuning pegs as he checks them once more, tuner in his free hand. “Would you mind if I told you why I decided to start drinking again?”</p><p>“You don’t have to explain yourself if you don’t want to.” Tell me.</p><p>Terra smiles at this. <em>Laughs</em>. I’m so obvious. He sees right through me, I guess, ‘cause he shifts his hand up the neck of his guitar before it drops away. The tuner is placed on the amp by his thigh, and then he reaches back behind him to grab a pick. But as he goes to play, his hand pauses. <em>He</em> pauses. “A while back Leon showed me this study they did on rats.”</p><p>Rats? “Did you just say rats?”</p><p>“Keep it together for a few,” he says, and his voice sounds so <em>light</em>.</p><p>Sinking into the couch — it’s harder, because this one’s more firm than the one upstairs — I close my eyes. “I suppose I can keep my drama in check for a single conversation.” It’s either a promise or a joke; maybe a little of both. A moment of self-reflection; the insistence of tone rejection.</p><p>Oh hey, that rhymes.</p><p>My eyes open just as Terra puts down the guitar, resting it against the nearest amp before he faces me, and it’s too much. It’s face and it’s connection and it’s too much. I look down, staring at my hands. He understands. At least, he knows. I hope he understands.</p><p>“They did two studies on rats with drugged water. The first was a pretty standard test. They had rats and they gave them two water bottles — one that had just water, and the other was laced with, like… cocaine. What they saw in this first study is the rats always went for the drugged water. In the second study they didn’t just give the rats drugs — they gave them things to do.” He pauses for me, and I’m grateful, and I take a moment to absorb before he continues. “They gave them toys. Activities. Wheels. They got physical and mental stimulation. These rats almost never went for the cocaine unless they were forced, and instead prefered the water at an overwhelming rate. Leon made me sit down and read that study, and then he asked me which cage I thought I had.”</p><p>… Leon did that? That sounds like a Xion thing.</p><p>“We closed the door — this was back when my room was still in the attic — and we sat down, and he said stuff like… like how he looked at these studies and thought of me, and wondered if I wanted to get better. And if there was a way he could help. But I didn’t know how, and I told him as much. I told him I liked drinking, and he asked me why I wanted to stay drunk. What could be so bad that I didn’t want to live in my own reality? And the answer… The answer was everything. He asked me if I wanted to stop drinking, and I told them there was no point; that my life wasn’t worth it, and there was nothing to salvage. I think I was waiting to die.”</p><p>There’s a twisting in my gut. An unease. A fear. I want to cry. I might throw up, or maybe I won’t. If I keep swallowing maybe my stomach will stay where it belongs instead of ratcheting up into my throat. It could be me being uncomfortable that he’s telling me this, or it could be the sense of failure, because I failed him. I was his world and he wanted to die.</p><p>But one person can’t be a world. I know that.</p><p>So I don’t cry, I keep swallowing, and I don’t throw up.</p><p>My stomach aches.</p><p>“I didn’t feel safe wherever I went, including my own room. I broke things a lot, and I was having daily meltdowns. I hated myself. My body was my cage. My mind was my cage. Everything and everyone around me was my cage, and in a bad way, and my family certainly wasn’t any help. My sister couldn’t look me in the eye since she was five and I had that meltdown and hurt her, and my parents couldn’t trust me with anything. Dad didn’t even know I was gay, and I was so <em>scared</em> that he was going to find out and flip a lid. And then… And then Leon said, ‘So you want to live away from them,’ and I said, ‘I can’t afford that,’ and he said, ‘But what if you could?’”</p><p>There’s a pause, and when he makes no move to continue I ask, “So you stopped drinking?”</p><p>Terra shakes his head. “I stopped a lot more than drinking. That’s when we came up with my rules.”</p><p>His rules? Like, no dating? No drinking? Therapy twice a week? The gym thing? “Which ones?”</p><p>“Most of them,” is his reply, and his left hand plays over the strings of his guitar idly. “I don’t remember what point he convinced me, but he talked me into letting him pay for my therapy for the first year. Did I ever tell you about that? Instead of having me pay him back in cash or something he just told me to learn how to maintain his bike. He’d bring it over and I’d work on it and he’d just play on his fuckin’ phone and watch movies and <em>time</em> me, and then say shit like, ‘Four hours of labor and an oil change. That takes off a good chunk,’ and he’d just…” He pauses. Shifts. Adjusts the strap of his guitar, hands falling to his sides as he continues, voice high and surprisingly eager. “He’d keep track, and it made me feel better about it, especially with the therapy and… It really helped. Especially after I was shuffled around between therapists before I settled in with my psychiatrist, and he said I needed to call in once a week, minimum. That first year Leon shelled out more than $5,000 for my therapy, and I know because I asked for an itemized list of services and history of payment. When I talked to Leon about it he just asked me to clean his brakes.”</p><p>Should I say something here? Why didn’t I know about any of this? Was he ashamed? Was he-</p><p>“I thought I was in love with Leon for a long time, but I always felt guilty when I thought about that bill, so I ignored it.” Not that anything would have happened, anyways. It’s Leon. “After that you started your business, and I started getting my name out at the local hardware stores as a handyman, and then we had that huge wasp summer, where everyone and their mother had a wasp nest all of a sudden, and I was one of like five people who knew how to safely remove them. Next thing I knew I had a beekeeping business and…” He pauses.</p><p>For the first time in a while I look up.</p><p>He’s smiling at his guitar, rocking slightly on the amp, eyes scrunched, wrinkles on display. “One day I woke up, I was a year sober, had my own business, my family had moved to the East Coast without me, and I was all alone in <em>my house</em>… and I realized I was happy. That I didn’t need to drink myself stupid anymore to <em>be</em> happy. That it actually existed outside all of that. And you came over and we moved furniture around, and I moved into the big bedroom, and I wanted to just… have a celebratory beer, but I was afraid of falling off the wagon, like I had a few times before, so I waited, and I waited, and when four years sober rolled around I realized my relationship with alcohol had changed because my relationship with my life had changed. But I waited another year, anyways, because I wanted to be sure.”</p><p>As the words sink in, each line taking time to process on its own, I watch his right hand shift back over the neck of the guitar, tapping on some higher notes to get a sweeter twang out of the strings. It’s familiar, but it’s in a major key. Soft; chipper; enthusiastic. Before long I’m whispering along, not quite able to capture the sweetness in what he’s doing with a voice that’s only practiced for a rasp. “<em>I've kept my hands away from drinks; you've kept me from myself. I'd like to keep you from your thoughts if you'd accept my help. Two years sober, I have learned there is no space for you. In this life I've learned to live, your presence would undo.</em>”</p><p>“I have a feeling that Leon could write an amazing love song if he put his mind to it,” Terra says as the song shifts into the bridge. “You think he’ll ever meet someone he’ll be willing to give it another go for?”</p><p>It’s a stark departure from our last topic, and I’m kind of relieved. “Maybe, if he ever pulls his head out of his ass.”</p><p>“In his defense, it’s a nice ass.”</p><p>“Oh, please. It’s flat as a pancake.”</p><p>“What can I say? I have low standards.”</p><p>A snort makes its way out of me as Terra pauses. “Oh, hey, Ventus accidentally bought some whipped cream vodka thinking it was marshmallow. You want it?”</p><p>Sounds like something he would do. “Sure, why not?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lea walks into practice with a cast on his upper arm, a sling across his chest, and a smile on his face. “So, uh, it’s broken.” It’s his left. Lea’s a leftie.</p><p>Fuck. Isn’t he working construction right now? Before I can ask, Terra does for me.</p><p>“Shit, weren’t you working at that construction place? Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, leaning forward on his amp.</p><p>Lea settles on the other large amp across the room, grin wide and toothy. “Nah, that’s ancient history.”</p><p>Oh, good.</p><p>“That’s good,” Terra sighs. “Should we just hang out, then? I mean, if your arm is broken-”</p><p>“Yeah, my <em>arm</em>. My <em>upper</em> arm. My <em>humerus</em>, and I’m sad none of you are making jokes about that. Not my fingers. I’m good to play, as long as I don’t move around too much. Might be a little slow from the painkillers, though.”</p><p>“Let’s watch something tonight. Team bonding time,” I suggest, throwing my legs back over the couch to sit up properly.</p><p>“Oh, come on. I can still play,” Lea argues. “Let’s at least do one song before you cut me off like this.”</p><p>“Should we cancel our gig in a few weeks?” Leon suggests, settling on the couch beside me. He sits properly, back ramrod straight instead of slouching into the cushions like the rest of us do.</p><p>Lea’s right hand smacks the amp, the strap for his bass slipping slowly over his shoulder. “Come on, guys. Don’t jump on this. I could really-” He cuts off, mouth twisting shut as we all shift to look at him. “I’ll be out of this setup in like a week. Maybe two. That concert’s been on the books for months, and it’s not for another, like… It’s in three weeks. Come on. Let’s not be hasty.”</p><p>At my side, Leon groans as he gets up, then says, “One song. Then we’ll talk about it and make a decision.”</p><p>“Cool. Which song?” Lea asks, guiding the guitar case off his back. As he struggles to open it, Terra clicks his tongue.</p><p>“Warmups first, remember?”</p><p>“But-”</p><p>“Warmups are holy,” I cut him off, rising to my feet. I’m a bit unsteady — I was laying really weird for a while — but then my balance finds my feet. “What are we doing today, Terra? It’s your turn, right?”</p><p>“Basic stretches to classical music,” is the easy reply.</p><p>Lea protests immediately. “Do you <em>want</em> me to fall asleep?”</p><p>“You should be resting, anyways, Leon points out with a snort. “Put that big brain to use and learn a thing or two about not aggravating an injury while you’re at it.”</p><p>“Suck a dick.”</p><p>“Not my area, sorry.”</p><p>“Leon, with the absolute bare minimum of respect, you can eat my entire ass. I mean that like 30% literally.”</p><p>“I’ll pass.”</p><p>“Okay, boys, you’re both pretty. Can we get to work, now? Warmups. Chop-chop.” Hopping off his amp, Terra places his acoustic guitar back on its stand before heading over to the boombox. Clicking the radio on, we’re treated to a few notes of violin before a woman begins to speak over the insistent ringing of a phone in the background.</p><p>“<em>Thank you for your contributions today during our bi-annual donation drive-</em>” It cuts off as Terra switches it to CD.</p><p>“Rock music it is, you filthy heathens,” Terra says, voice flat as the disk whirs to a start inside.</p><p>We line up for some basic stretches, and then I settle into my usual spot. Center of the room, mic stand set, mic in hand. Should I play with it today? I don’t really feel like it. Turning away from the stand, I face the others, headset hanging around my neck. “So what song are we gonna test with?”</p><p>Plugging his guitar into his usual amp, Terra turns it on and shrugs. “Maybe go big or go home? ‘Sell Your Time’ should give us a good idea of what he can do like this.”</p><p>“Maybe we should go a bit easier on him. How about ‘Blackout?’” Leon suggests from behind the drums.</p><p>Which is going to give us a better idea of what Lea can do, though? “I’m gonna have to side with Terra. An easy song won’t tell us how he’ll perform under pressure. You good with that, Lea?”</p><p>“More than,” he replies, flashing me a thumbs up before turning back to his bass.</p><p>As soon as everyone’s headsets are on, Leon taps his drumsticks together in a countdown before we start.</p><p>I should have warmed up more. The first verse isn’t too rough, but I struggle to get the chorus out. The “yeah, yeah” sounds pretty stupid, and my voice cracks over, “now the world’s ending, so let’s sell your time.” But I’m paying too much attention to my own performance, not Lea’s, so I let myself slip a bit. (A lot.)</p><p>Which is good, ‘cause Lea is sweating.</p><p>His upper lip has a bit of fuzz on it — how long has it been since he shaved? Can he not do it with his arm like this? — and is shiny with sweat. Skin that is already pale on its own seems to glow under its freckles. He’s wearing a kilt today; one of the ones I’ve seen him wear since highschool. It’s old and faded but holding up well. His legs are long and almost terrifyingly thin. And his bass work?</p><p>It’s <em>sloppy</em>.</p><p>Maybe it’s the cast getting in the way, or the pain of moving. Maybe it’s the strain of the song, which is a challenge on a good day. But whatever it is he’s fucking up. He’s missing notes, and the ones he’s getting are timed wrong. While most of our music is supposed to sound like a wall of noise — “an homage to Rancid and the classic signs of counterculture” he likes to call it — he’s always been proud of arranging things with Terra until it’s an organized, pleasing wall instead of just… a weird pile of whatever this is.</p><p>By the time the song is over Lea’s face is twisted. His lips are pinched, eyes narrowed at his own hands. At least I don’t have to be the one to break the news.</p><p>As the guitar fades back out and everyone pauses to take off their headsets, I dig my phone out of my back pocket. “I’m gonna go ahead and call Windy to cancel. You guys decide what movie we’re gonna watch, okay?”</p><p>“Actually, if it’s cool with you guys, I’m gonna get going,” Leon says, stepping out from behind the drums.</p><p>“Oh, sure,” Terra says passively, watching him go.</p><p>Leon passes me on the way out, offering me a small wave and a nod of the head before pushing open the glass sliding door and stepping out.</p><p>There’s a moment of silence before Terra asks, “So, uh… are we watching a movie?”</p><p>Lea sighs, then shakes his head. “Honestly, man, I don’t think I’m up for a movie. Rain check, okay?”</p><p>As Lea begins to pack his things away, I drop my headset in the designated box before unlocking my phone with my thumb and swiping through my contacts until I find it.</p><p>
  <strong>Cid “Windy” Highwind</strong>
</p><p>He picks up in two rings. “<em>Well, if it isn’t the local Stress Pelican. To what do I owe an actual phone call from a millennial?</em>”</p><p>A laugh sneaks out before I can stop it. “Hey, Highwind. I’ve got some bad news, actually. We’re going to have to cancel that gig in a few weeks.”</p><p>“<em>Sure. Thanks for the advanced warning. Can I ask what happened? The last time you guys cancelled…</em>” He pauses. “<em>I don’t think you’ve ever cancelled on me, now that I think on it. Twenty years of this bullshit. Is it serious? You guys okay?</em>”</p><p>“Nothing too serious. Lea’s arm is broken.”</p><p>“<em>Is it a bad break?</em>”</p><p>“I don’t think so.”</p><p>There’s a sigh. “<em>That’s good. Happy healing, then. Let me know the next time you wanna play here, though. You’re always welcome.</em>”</p><p>“Thanks, Cid.”</p><p>“<em>Is that everything you needed?</em>”</p><p>What could I need from him? “Yeah, that about covers it.”</p><p>“<em>I’ll let you go, then. Let you get back to being the least well-adjusted millennial for fifty miles.</em>”</p><p>“Okay, Boomer.”</p><p>“<em>I go out of my way to compliment you and you liken me to a bunch of loud, conservative assholes? Bold.</em>”</p><p>Oops. Wrong reaction. “Fine, fogey.” Does that work?</p><p>“<em>Fogey I’ll take. Next time, Toyoguchi.</em>” In the clear.</p><p>“Next time,” I agree. Pulling the phone away from my face, I look up just in time to catch Lea heading out the door. Then it’s just me and Terra.</p><p>He smiles, crow’s feet on display. “So. Movie?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We watch two episodes of Mythbusters before Terra nudges me, whispering, “You look pale.”</p><p>“Haven’t been sleeping,” is my reply.</p><p>“Then go get some sleep.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mom is awake when I get home. She’s sitting up on the couch, watching one of her old movies — Arsenic and Old Lace — and greets me with a warm, excited, “Welcome home!” that makes my heart hurt. At her side is…</p><p>Oh, wow.</p><p>Her skin is a deep earthy shade, with reddish tones where the light hits her. Her cheekbones are high, curves pronounced, and her <em>hair</em>. It’s prematurely gray. Or, I should say, <em>white</em>. And I’m… I’m focusing on her eyebrows. She doesn’t need this sort of shit. Especially at work. Be <em>fucking professional</em>, Aqua.</p><p>The woman — a DSP, probably — stands and offers her hand. She’s got this grin that’s higher on one side. Amusement, maybe? “You must be Aqua. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, and hey that’s either a speech impediment or a really thick accent but <em>holy fuck</em>.</p><p>Keep it in your goddamn pants, me. She probably deals with enough being black in <em>this fucking town</em>…</p><p>… thinks the Japanese Jew.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s me.” Keep it light. Keep it casual. <em>Do not flirt</em>. <em>This woman doesn’t have to deal with my shit.</em> Also, I’m just out of a relationship by like… eighteen hours? “Aqua Toyoguchi. I run a self defense studio downtown.”</p><p>“Radiant Self Defense, right?”</p><p>“Uh… Yeah. Have you taken a class?” If she has, my memory is a goddamn traitor. How dare I forget her.</p><p>“Oh, no. I go to church with a friend of yours, Leon. He recommended your studio when I mentioned an interest in yoga.”</p><p>Leon? Church? That’s a laugh. He’s an- Oh, right, Leon plays piano for his old teacher’s church. Right. It’s easy to forget he has a life outside the band. He never talks about it. “Well, yoga is twenty bucks a class, but depending on your income you could qualify for lower pricing tiers. Just keep in mind that classes are about 90% soccer moms.”</p><p>“You sound upset by this.” Her voice has this <em>purring</em> quality. Is she laughing? Is she amused? Her eyes have crinkled at the corners and her lips are- Nope. Not looking at her lips.</p><p>With a shrug, I tell her, “Honestly, if one more person said ‘Namaste’ to me today I thought I was going to snap.”</p><p>“Isn’t it respectful to say namaste?” she asks.</p><p>“I’d rather not get into the mess that is appropriation of culture in modern day yoga classes. I don’t teach it in my classes specifically because I don’t want to encourage or romanticize it. If they have a healthy interest in it and want to study the culture and religion behind yoga on their own time I certainly won’t stop them, but when my clients come up to me and say things like ‘namaste’ it triggers this panic button in my head, ‘cause then they try to get all buddy-buddy with me. Look at me. Do I look like the kind of person who has had positive experiences with white suburban middle-class soccer moms?” So that was word vomit. Does she think I’m weird? She totally thinks I’m weird.</p><p>But <em>that</em> is a smile. And what a smile it is. The DSP extends her hand, voice low as she says, “My name is Fran Nicole Fantl. It is very nice to meet you, Ms. Toyoguchi.”</p><p>Reaching forward, I take her hand. Her grip is firm. Fran shakes once before letting go, like a businessman. Then an alarm goes off, and she digs her phone out of her pocket. She glances up, smiling over at mom. “It’s about time for your afternoon medication, Alte. Are you ready?”</p><p>“Yes, I would quite like that. Thank you,” mom replies. She’s turned back to look at us, that smug grin firm on her face. As soon as Fran has disappeared down the hall, she speaks again. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”</p><p>Oh god. “Shut up.”</p><p>With a snort, mom waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, come now. You look like you’re having one of your ‘gay crisises’. It’s hilarious.”</p><p>I want to scream. “I <em>am</em> having a gay crisis right now, mom. Let me have my gay crisis in peace.”</p><p>“Are you kidding? I’m running out of chances to make you resent me. You liked me too much as a teenager, and you like me too much now.”</p><p>No.</p><p>No, I didn’t like her too much in high school.</p><p>No, I don’t like her too much now.</p><p>I don’t like her too much because she’s a <em>good mom</em>. She’s always been a good mom. And she’s my mom. And she’s dying.</p><p>I don’t want to joke about this.</p><p>I don’t… Fuck. God, my stomach is in my throat and my… Everything’s all mixed up. Everything’s… Everything’s just fucked up. But the floor is cold and the room is warm, just the way mom knows I like it, and the old couch groans when I sink into the seat beside her, wrapping my arm around her waist and burying my face in the hypersoft skin of her throat. “I love you, mom,” I tell her.</p><p>Her hand is in my hair, and then it’s on my shoulder.</p><p>“I love you so much.”</p><p>Mom’s soft and smells like soap and so <em>warm</em>. She restarts the movie and I can feel her laughing whenever Carey Grant says anything on screen, the rumble in her chest like the purring of a cat. She’s doing so much better than she was.</p><p>And in a few months we won’t have this.</p><p>Maybe I’m being selfish, but I want this goodbye to be as long as possible.</p><p>Fran comes back with the meds.</p><p>Mom shoves me off, half joking, and after all the medications — there’s <em>so many</em> — are swallowed and packed away. Fran leaves the room with a smile thrown our way as I snuggle back into Mom’s side.</p><p>As the movie winds to a close, Mom’s hand pets over my shoulder like she’s calming a wild animal. “My lawyer dropped by earlier today,” she says, voice made of gravel. It’s her crying voice, but her face is dry.</p><p>“Anything interesting?” I ask, craning to look up at her from where I’m bundled into her side.</p><p>“I’ve put it in writing that my medical records will be closed to you until a year after my death.”</p><p>“What?” It comes out forceful. Possibly angry. But I am angry.</p><p>Her lips pinch, then she breathes a soft sigh. “We don’t have much time, and I want us to enjoy every bit we have left without worrying about these things, alright? Just humor this old woman, would you?”</p><p>My stomach drops. Where, I’m not entirely sure. Maybe around my knees, crushed between my thighs. But at the very least it’s not trying to push its way out of my throat. “Okay,” I say, feeling a little selfish for agreeing. But I guess we’re both being a little selfish right now, and that’s okay. It’s our choice. We’re only human.</p><p>Half an hour later I’m draping a blanket over mom and heading out the front door, phone in hand. Ignoring all the alerts from Paine, I scroll through my message app. I feel full to bursting, but I don’t know of what.</p><p>Maybe I need a reality check.</p><p>Or a change.</p><p>Scrolling through my texting app — oh, wow, has it been this long? — I select my message history with Xion.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Hey, you available?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Xion Stoner:<br/>Magically. On break at work. Wassup?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Mind if I drop by?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Xion Stoner:<br/>Hell no. Head on over. You wanna hang?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Yeah. I’ll head over, then.</em>
</p><p>It’s a good half an hour before the bus comes. It’s Saturday, and Horace is at the wheel tonight, greeting me with a tip of his hat. Climbing on, I listen as the doors hiss shut, and then we’re headed off down the road.</p><p>Wait, I’m hungry.</p><p>Pulling a protein bar out of my bag, I choke it down as we head into town.</p><hr/><p>Oblivion Ink is a twenty minute walk away from the nearest bus stop in the middle of a residential area. It’s all one story, the roof is covered in moss, and the windows across the front of the parlor are tinted glass. Out front is a sad, algae-filled fountain that sputters just outside the door. Someone really needs to clean that thing.</p><p>When I step inside, Rikku is at the reception, and shit. <em>Shit</em>, I forgot she might be here.</p><p>Maybe my panic shows ‘cause she smiles at me — she’s hot, if you’re into blondes (I’m not) and heavy makeup (which I can smell from here) — and jerks a thumb towards the back room. “Xion’s in the last room on the right.”</p><p>How do I even treat Rikku right now? She- Actually, no. Fuck the social game. Rikku is being nice. I’m going to be nice back. “Thanks,” I say, slapping a smile on my face. It hurts a little bit, but she doesn’t deserve to deal with her roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s bullshit. Heading through the reception area, I step into the hallway and make my way to the end.</p><p>Xion’s in the middle of shading an anchor, going by the looks of things. Just… doing shading. Ink gun — or “tattoo machine,” as she once corrected me. Shirtless old man. Her job.</p><p>“Hey, Aqua, I’m just finishing up here,” Xion says with a glance in my direction. Her hair is held back by barrets, a loose t-shirt hanging from her- Is that Leon’s shirt? Probably; they live together, after all. It’s a soft gray and has the logo of his old college. Probably his.</p><p>Sometimes I wonder if they’re ever going to hook up.</p><p>Knowing Leon, that’ll never happen.</p><p>She motions to a chair and I take a seat, not quite sure what to do. There’s art all over the walls — Xion’s art — and as I stare at a row of armbands my left hand draws up to my upper right arm, tracing the raised skin of my own band tattoo where it circles my bicep.</p><p>Maybe I should get a second one for my mom, after she passes.</p><p>I zone out for too long, or maybe just long enough, because the old man is gone and Xion is waving her hand in my face, calling my name. “Toyoguchi, if you don’t answer me in five seconds you’re buying me dinner.”</p><p>“How about I just buy you dinner?” She’s so weird. I mean, pot meet kettle, but still.</p><p>Xion laughs, and… It’s too much and all at once not enough. The too-big shirt is tucked into tight jeans with strappy heels and a jangly gold bracelet. She just has eyeliner and lip gloss on today; two things that don’t have a strong smell. Her freckles are ink against her cheeks, dark and bold and <em>beautiful</em>. She’s got a strong jaw and broad shoulders and her breasts are small and… and her <em>laugh</em>.</p><p>And she’s straight and I’ve got to remember that I was only an experiment.</p><p>“There’s a hole in the wall that should still be open a few blocks away. They’ve got shitty burgers and really great fries,” she says, nodding her head to the foyer.</p><p>Our steps are too loud as I follow her out. Wasn’t there music playing? And it’s so dark. All the overhead lights are out, and the sun has set. Even Rikku is gone. Is it after closing? What time is it?</p><p>My phone says 9:52PM.</p><p>Xion closes and locks the door behind us, setting the alarm. After she checks the knob and waits a few minutes for the security system to properly engage, she heads off down the street at a skip.</p><p>She’s so cute.</p><p>The air has finally begun to cool, and I’m starting to regret not bringing my jacket. Why didn’t I grab it? I’m an idiot. I didn’t know how late I would be out. Inside the diner it’s a bit better, though Xion groans about how hot it is.</p><p>“I’m gonna boil alive on these seats,” she says even as she sinks into the faux leather booth. “I’m just going to sweat all my bodily fluids out through my ass and they’re going to have to peel my corpse out of its own stew.”</p><p>“That’s vivid,” I comment dryly.</p><p>“So what’s the news I missed out on the other night? Heard from Leon that Terra had an episode when Paine tried to fight him, but forgot to tell me the news. I’m wondering how juicy it could be if a fight broke out.”</p><p>Right out of the gate, huh? “Actually, Paine started the fight before I could tell anyone the news, and then we broke up.”</p><p>There’s a moment that passes, then she says, “Holy <em>shit</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I whisper. “Holy shit.”</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>Offering her a shrug, I turn my eyes to my hands, clasping them on the table. “Yeah. It was doomed from the start, anyways. Someone as volatile as Paine shouldn’t be around Terra.”</p><p>Xion’s hand finds mine on the table as she says, “That doesn’t mean you’re not messed up about it. That you’re not <em>allowed</em> to be messed up about it.”</p><p>I’m not sure I even have the capacity to process it just yet.</p><p>But I don’t say that.</p><p>Xion’s hand tightens over mine for a second, and then she says, louder this time, “Look… This might seem like a weird thing to say, but Paine actually dropped by earlier today. They had this huge bruise on their face, and when I asked they said you two were going through a rough patch. I’m… I’m not sure they’ve accepted the breakup, however it happened.”</p><p>I’m about to reply when a waiter comes by in a dingey black smock. Xion orders before I can think.</p><p>“Three orders of french fries. Could you just put them in one big bowl? That would be great, thanks.”</p><p>Food right now might not be the best idea. “Root beer.”</p><p>Xion’s head snaps to face me, and even without looking at her I know she disapproves. As the waiter walks away from our table her hand pulls away from mine but stays close, black fingernails brushing my knuckles. “Any old habits I should be worried about?”</p><p>Rolling my eyes more for the drama of it than the actual emotion, I reach into my bag and retrieve the wrapper for the protein bar I had on the bus, tossing it onto the table.</p><p>She takes it, fingers smoothing over the wrinkles to stare not at the large “20 Grams of Protein!” printed on the front, but on the creases inside the plastic. Turning it over her fingers, she looks at the folds before dropping it back to the table. Then, with a slow nod, she turns her face back to me. “So what was that news?”</p><p>News.</p><p>Right.</p><p>Should I come out and say it?</p><p>Should I tell her- oh, no, I’ve stalled too long. Our food is here. How long have I been quiet?</p><p>The waiter places her fries dead center, then my Root Beer goes near my left hand. After he leaves I grab it. It’s warm.</p><p>That’s not alarming at all.</p><p>“Come in, Major Tom,” Xion says, nudging my hand with hers.</p><p>“I’d like you to do another piece for me. An arm piece.” It’s hard to get out, but I manage to say it. But it’s not even the point. It’s just… They’re just words. And not even important words.</p><p>There’s silence, and then she reaches for the napkin holder off to the side, pulling one out and reaching into her bra to retrieve a pen. “Okay, I guess. What do you want?”</p><p>At first I think of asking for a plain band around my upper arm, but then I stop. That would make it just like dad’s. “A sort of pattern,” I say instead, thinking of knitting needles and late nights in high school where mom got so much done on scarves as I ranted to her about English projects and censorship in Social Studies. “You know that… that pattern Mom likes to put across the front of all her sweaters? The criss-cross one?”</p><p>“I know it, yeah,” she agrees, voice high and kind of… distant. “You want it somewhere specific? Or part of something else?”</p><p>“It’ll wrap around my arm, like the one you did for my dad.” Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Reaching for my soda, I pull it close, pushing out a rush of words as I prepare to take a sip to weigh my stomach back in place. “Wanted the art in advance.” The soda is warm.</p><p>Xion doesn’t talk at first, but when she does it’s a mangled mess. As soon as my cup hits the table, her hand finds mine again, pushing the fries aside entirely. “Advance? What’s going on?”</p><p>“She’s sick.” My voice breaks and I’m not okay. Another sip of the soda might help keep my stomach in place, but I don’t know that for sure, and Xion’s hand is so <em>warm</em>. I keep my eyes on the table. Just gotta get through this. “She’s not letting me know what it is, but she said she has about three months.”</p><p>“Holy shit.” She’s up and out of the booth, and then she’s next to me, pulling me in.</p><p>My face is wet as her shirt is pressed to my cheek. Have I been crying? How long? But it’s all coming out and I can’t breathe. Her hands are in my hair, shushing me even as she tells me to let it all out. This woman is a walking contradiction, and sometimes I love her for it.</p><p>Fingers combing through my hair, sweat mingling with my tears, she presses her lips to my forehead and gently rocks me as an overplayed pop song plays over the overhead speakers.</p><p>Deep breathes — maybe too deep — and shaking hands pressing into her skin, I try not to enjoy this too much. I’m melting down, but she still smells like paper and something sweet, and I want to be here forever. Usually I’d tell myself to feel guilty for liking this — her arms around me, taking advantage of her arms and her willingness to comfort me. It wasn’t like this after Dad died. I was completely overcome… but Mom hasn’t died yet, and instead I feel something like clarity.</p><p>Just because I’m grieving doesn’t mean I’m not still experiencing this moment. Grieving doesn’t have just one form, and different forms of grief can exist simultaneously. I’m grieving for the loss of a mother I haven’t lost yet. I’m grieving for the loss of my life as I know it; as I live it. I’m grieving for losing Xion, even though I never really had her. I’m grieving for Paine, and the relationship we could have had if things had been different, or maybe I’m grieving the time I lost ignoring all the little red flags.</p><p>I’m grieving for myself, because at the end of all this I might not be the same person. Maybe I’ll be stronger. Maybe I’ll be more like everyone else, and less like… me. Weird. Strange.</p><p>Alien.</p><p>But that hasn’t happened yet. Right now I’m still grieving, and I’ll probably be grieving for a long time… and that’s okay. You can’t control grieving.</p><p>It’s all going to be okay.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Paine-ful</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Much love to Cap for editing and Arnaud for keeping me sane over the course of this chapter. (Though the news on the first certainly helped.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Sunday August 15th</strong>
</p><p>One of the things they don’t tell you in health class is that humans are the culmination of a lot of really bad evolutionary decisions. Maybe things would be different if states required courses involving health and fitness to be scientifically accurate. But no; we've got to keep the Christians happy, so here we are; devoid of the answers to questions we actually want to ask. Things like:</p><p>
  <em>How does the body process protein?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How does Vitamin C help the immune system?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why does crying give you a hangover?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>Acid. | It actually doesn't. | Because <em>bullshit</em>.</strong>
</p><p>The Vitamin C thing really messed me up when I found that out. Apparently it <em>just</em> prevents scurvy. Capitalism and advertising really does warp your understanding of <em>everything</em>. How much of what I know is a carefully constructed lie about how the world works?</p><p>But crying hangovers are special. They’re a <em>specific </em>flavor of bullshit. “Hey, you let all your emotions out that have been eating you from the inside out for weeks. Here's a headache from dehydration and internal swelling! Why does the human body swell when it's stressed? Because fuck you!”</p><p>Humanity was the Earth’s worst investment.</p><p>It’s a Sunday, which means I’ve got five Taekwondo classes to teach as people from around Radiant Garden and those outside town limits drop off their kids for the one activity open to children in a 53-mile-radius on this blessed Holy (to some) day. It’s my busiest day of the week. It’s not like yoga or self defense, usually populated by women in their thirties who wouldn’t spare half a thought about the emotional state of the person leading them in a Downward Dog. No, these people care about the influence I have over their children. Which means, comes Hell or High Water… Sunday is the day I have to shower before work.</p><p>Dramatic, but true.</p><p>Some days I don’t mind. Some days I’m filthy and want to scrub everything I’ve touched from my skin. But some days it feels like the water is too hot, then too cold, then I’m too cold, and then I’m nauseous, and then I’m trying not to get sick, and the water is sharp and too fast and hard against my back and I want to puke, and today is going to be one of those days.</p><p>After I wake up, I rise to my horrible reality. For a second I almost go into the hall in my underwear, but a sound on the other side brings me back to — yet again — <em>my horrible reality</em>.</p><p>Mom dying. She’s probably not up and about. That’s a DSP.</p><p>I can’t just walk out into the hall in some boxers and an old bra anymore because <em>people</em>.</p><p>Pulling on a pair of pajama pants and a ratty tank top, I gather my things for the day and head out into the hall.</p><p>Myde is just outside the door with a bowl of oatmeal in one hand and mom’s favorite fuzzy pillow in the other. It’s almost comical to see him with it against his stained and holey tank top. There’s a flannel tied around his waist, bringing the shirt tight around him. On display is a thin physique. Not trim, but painfully gaunt. His ribs make an impression against the fabric of the tank. The skin over his collarbone has sunken into it. Even his shoulders look painfully thin.</p><p>This is a good time to keep my words to myself as he smiles, then steps into mom’s room.</p><p>My shower is quick — it feels like needles today, too cold even as I set the water as hot as I can, but maybe it’s the contrast of the air against my skin that feels so… <em>repulsive</em>. Five minutes and I’m out in the hall, fully dressed and the opposite of mentally ready for the day. I pop into my room to drop my pajamas in the laundry basket, I walk into the kitchen. I grab one of the sandwiches out of the fridge, along with a yogurt cup — there’s two sandwiches left in the pile, which means it’s Saturday. But wait, no, on Thursday I had soup, which means there’s an extra sandwich. It’s Sunday. My days off are the day after tomorrow.</p><p>Breakfast is a reheated egg and sausage burrito that I dig out of the freezer. (I’m getting low on those.) I eat it as quickly as I dare while catching up on news on the couch with my phone propped up on the coffee table.</p><p>Going back into the bathroom, I go to replace my earrings with plastic posts, but as I reach for the drawer they’re in I catch my reflection in the mirror.</p><p>I never took the ones from yesterday out.</p><p>Whelp.</p><p>As I leave and gather my things together — a tiny glorified sling backpack covered in pins, lunch box, my eyeliner and chapstick because I ran out of time, sunglasses — I head to the front door. Hand settling on the knob, I pause as there comes a knock.</p><p>It’s six in the morning. Who’s knocking?</p><p>The door seems heavier as I pull it open — am I tired? — and on the other side is… Wow. She’s got reddish-brown hair. Her skirt is long and her shirt has sheer sleeves that look like it’s been worn too many times to sit the way it should any more. One sags over her shoulder, placing the skin up to her neck on display. “Hi,” I say, and I must look like a total idiot right now. I feel like one. She’s attractive. Feminine. Red lipstick and heavy eyeliner with purple eyeshadow. There’s so much foundation I can smell it — or maybe it’s just cheap.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” Myde calls from behind me, rushing up to the door. His right arm settles on the frame, waving his left hand between us. “This is my relief.”</p><p>His relief smiles — lips crooked, one eye crinkled, what a <em>smile</em> — and offers an elbow. “The name’s Megara. I’m the day shift.”</p><p>What’s with the elbow?</p><p>“Oh, uh, we bump elbows instead of shaking hands these days. Germ transmission. Company policy. Did I mention that?” Myde says from the side, because I was apparently just that obvious.</p><p>I think I’ve heard of this, though; the “elbowla.”</p><p>Bringing my arm up, I touch my elbow to hers — my inner twelve-year-old is screaming, “Our wenises touched!” — and this close I can tell something quite… specific.</p><p>She’s not wearing perfume.</p><p>Grabbing my backpack’s strap (Hands Need Do Thing) I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s getting pretty close to six. I have to get going, like, now. “I’ve got to catch the bus. It was nice meeting you, Meg.”</p><p>There’s one of those smiles again — I can’t tell if it’s condescending, but she’s <em>hot</em> — as she lifts manicured fingers and says, “Have a nice day.”</p><p>As I step past her out into the street, I hear Myde behind me as he greets her, saying, “I’ll show you where we’re keeping the tablet. How much do you know about the site so far?”</p><p>I’m about to rebound <em>hard</em>.</p><p>As I settle onto the bus and it takes off, I find it's all back again. Terra had an episode. Paine and I broke things off. Lea’s arm is broken. Mom is dying. My hands begin to vibrate.</p><p>But this is fine. This is <em>fine</em>. I’ve got my hydroxyzine. I’m going to be fine! Except the little altoid tin in my bag that I keep it in is down to just altoids. When did I go through all of them? Will I make it through the day? I can’t go home <em>now</em>. If I get off at the next stop and get some I won’t make it to work in time.</p><p>Maybe I can make it through today.</p><p>Maybe I’ll be fine.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>By the time I make it to work, the entirety of me is vibrating. Clara gives me a look as I get off the bus — and it’s a good and bad thing that’s it’s Clara and not Clarabelle today, who would have seen my episode for what is was and told me to go home — and then I’m out on the street, heading toward my studio not far from the bus stop. It takes longer than it should to unlock the doors and disable the alarm. So long that my phone gets an alert and I have to deactivate it before the security company calls.</p><p>They call. I tell them it was a user error.</p><p>Wiping down the room helps the shaking a little. Stretching helps a little. But when seven draws close, heralding the impending arrival of Belle and the students, my stomach churns like it’s preparing to upend my breakfast.</p><p>Grabbing my bag, I pull out the altoids tin and double check it for hydroxyzine. Maybe a pill had just gotten buried. Maybe I just missed seeing it the first time. That happens all the time. I could have looked right past it ‘cause I was looking too hard. But with the cool tin in my hand, staring down at blue tablets and hoping to find white, I see something else in the bottom of my bag that could help.</p><p>It’s the tester bottle of whipped cream vodka Ventus accidentally bought the other day.</p><p>Will a downer even help me right now? Probably. If I drink this, I won’t be able to take hydroxyzine even if I pick up another bottle on my lunch break. I mean, I could, but it definitely wouldn’t end well.</p><p>The lock is cold when I finally turn it, ducking into the bathroom to weigh my options. But do I really have one? Twisting off the cap, I take a second to enjoy the satisfying snap of the safety seal. Then… down the hatch. Swallowing half the bottle, I put the cap back on before rinsing my mouth in the sink.</p><p>Why did I even take this stuff off Terra’s hands? It’s vile, too sweet with the all-too-present burn of alcohol that makes you want to hurl.</p><p>Within a few minutes it starts to hit. Hands that had shook almost too hard to lock the door begin to still against the sink. I can feel a bit of a flush up my neck, and I place my hands against it, trying to warm up. How cold had I gotten without even noticing? My fingers creak when they move, so <em>cold</em>.</p><p>Stashing the bottle back in my bag, I let myself out of the bathroom and unlock the front doors.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lunch is takeout. I can splurge a little on better food for today; I’ll just eat the sandwich later. My mood needs a boost. There’s a taco place down the street that I order a good amount from, sharing bits with Belle, who has lasagna today. (It looks so good and smells amazing. Her boyfriend really knows how to cook.)</p><p>There’s another class, and then a quick break where I check my texts on the toilet.</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>Ventus and I are having a picnic tonight. Big to-do before he heads back to work. If you’re feeling up to it we can pick you up after work and go straight there.</em>
</p><p>Should I go? Will I be able to? But Ventus is leaving soon.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Count me in. Bring an extra blanket for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>Absolutely. 4:15, right?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Aim for 4:20. Gotta close up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>We’ll be there.</em>
</p><p>Finishing up in the bathroom, washing my hands twice and stuffing my phone in my back pocket, I step out into the hall and then head back out into the studio, where parents mill about with their kids and-</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Paine stands by the front doors, lingering by the front desk where Belle is helping an older woman. Their face is bruised from the apple of their cheek to their mouth, where Terra had slapped them. It’s still mottled purple, vibrant against their skin. As soon as their eyes meet mine — brown today, no contacts — their head bobs toward the door, away from the small sea of teens and younger kids that fill the room for my last Taekwondo class of the day, their parents filing out of the room slowly, but for a moment traffic seems to stop.</p><p>Stepping outside the front doors, Paine waits on the other side of the glass, perfectly visible to everyone in the room, because fuck me, apparently.</p><p>Stepping through the mass of people — only a few small hands reach for me, and attentive parents guide them away (ah, good parents) — I manage to get to the door pretty easily, and then it’s nice and warm. At least by my standards. It’s probably getting close to the hundreds, seeing as Paine has a tank top on and shorts, sweating visibly and cheeks flushed. There’s a bit of red on their shoulders and nose. Are they getting sunburned?</p><p>“Hey,” they say, lifting a hand before tucking it back in their shorts. They’re long and loose, probably from the men’s section. Most of their piercings are studs today, a stark change from the usual hoops and barbells they usually have on them. “You haven’t been answering my texts. I wanted to talk.”</p><p>Excuse me? “Well this certainly isn’t the time or place for that.”</p><p>“So what? Should I have just gone to your house? I just want to apologize. Is that so fuckin’ difficult?”</p><p>I want to scream. At least if I were at home I could <em>leave</em> or defend my side of things. Instead I have to be on my best behavior, covering <em>both</em> our asses in front of a minimum of two dozen kids and their helicopter parents. “Watch the F-bombs. There are kids,” I say instead. Gotta stay calm. Gotta stay <em>calm</em>.</p><p>“If I promise not to swear, will you promise to listen to me?”</p><p>“No, I won’t. You need to leave. This is incredibly inappropriate.”</p><p>“Look-”</p><p>“No, <em>you</em> look,” I snap, leaning in close. I look them in the eye, now, taking in their open mouth, flaring nostrils, and eyelashes nearly brushing eyebrows. And maybe this gets my point across, looking them in the eye, because they know I hate it. I’ve told them how much I hate it; how uncomfortable it makes me.</p><p>Wait, what was I going to say again? Did I even have anything to say? I take a breath, filling the silence the only way I can figure out how without screaming. My hands are shaking again, and the summer heat is so, so nice right now as my body temperature plummets. Am I shaking with anxiety? With rage? “I’m not going to explain this to you. I’m not going to explain what you did wrong or what you’re doing wrong right now. I spent so long explaining things to you, trying to get us on the same page because with my Autism it’s hard to understand most social cues, but I’m done bending over backwards just trying to get you to understand that I need you to look before you leap. I’m not going to make excuses for you because you’re so much younger any more. I’m not your mother. You’re an independent adult, and these are the consequences of your actions, and you are going to face them as far away from me as I can get you. If that means calling the police right now because my ex is cornering me at my place of work and interrupting a local business that involves <em>children</em>, then so be it.”</p><p>Pretty sure Paine just stopped breathing.</p><p>There’s a moment that passes, and then Paine is stepping away. They’re quiet, eyes askance, and I think I can finally look away as a hand passes through pale hair. “Okay,” they say, and that seems to be it, because they turn around and walk away. Shoulders low, face towards the ground, shoes scraping the pavement as they walk.</p><p>Stepping back into the studio, I head through the crowd and into the hall, stepping into the storage room in back. Grabbing my bag out of my locker, I glance back at the closed door before pulling out the bottle of whipped cream vodka.</p><p>Down the hatch.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We’re halfway through the last class of the day when a little girl misses while practicing a kick (which I did <em>not</em> tell them to do) and nails a little boy in the stomach. Said boy proceeds to fall over, vomit all over the floor, and start crying.</p><p>Sundays. (I don’t want kids.)</p><p>It takes five minutes of squeegeeing the mats and taking a wet-vac to the worst of it (not looking forward to cleaning that out) before we can prop the door open and spray some cleaners, and by then I’ve started to clench my jaw so hard that I’ve got a headache. The kid’s guardian is called and class resumes while he sits at the edge of the room, sniffling.</p><p>Ten minutes pass, class has resumed in earnest, and the kid’s still here.</p><p>Twenty minutes pass, students are learning a new move, and his arms have wrapped around his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.</p><p>Thirty minutes go by, everyone starts packing up, and still no one has come for him. As parents flood into the room and collect their family and/or charges, paying their bills with Belle by the door, I spare a few glances to the boy in the corner between questions from helicopter parents.</p><p>Under a jean jacket approximately three times his size with shoes that look like they’re falling apart, the little boy who had been accidentally assaulted sits against the far wall with lips pursed, curled over his stomach. Does it still hurt? Is he okay? Did Belle check in with him? But she’s busy right now.</p><p>As the last of the parental figures filter out with their charges, I step up to the kid — fuck, what’s his name? I have so many students — and take a seat in front of him. “Do you know who’s coming for you?” I ask, because that’s a great place to start.</p><p>He nods, and his eyes almost look too big in his head. Maybe it’s ‘cause he’s young, or because I’m trying so hard to look someone in the eye right now, and I’m not used to it. His teeth are a sparkling white, and the front two are missing. “Grandpa,” he says softly. There’s a bit of a lisp to his voice, and his knees come up in front of his stomach, arms wrapping around them.</p><p>“You want some water?” I ask, because hey, why not?</p><p>Little head shaking, he seems to shrink into the wall.</p><p>Well, this isn’t gonna go anywhere. “I’ve gotta wipe down the mats. Do you mind waiting outside with Belle while I do that? I’ll wait with you until your grandpa comes.”</p><p>He goes out quick — probably a testament to how well I’m received by kids one on one (not that great, what do kids like these days) — and immediately runs to Belle. Before long I join them, feeling more than a little awkward as I tell her, “Go on home. I’ll stick around until his grandpa shows up.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” she asks.</p><p>Leaning closer to the door to check that the alarm is flashing, I lock the front door and step back as it beeps. “Yeah. I’m the one responsible for these kids, so I’ll make sure his guardian shows up. Go on; have your night.”</p><p>Belle hesitates for a moment before nodding, walking swiftly over to where her boyfriend’s car idles down the street.</p><p>Joining Vivi over by where he’s crouched by the glass front of the studio, I take a seat with my knees up, bracing my arms against my thighs. “Is, uh…” I clear my throat. “Is your grandpa usually this late?”</p><p>“Only lately,” is his stiff reply. He seems to shrink in his jacket, so large on him he practically disappears. A family member’s, maybe?</p><p>There’s a hong, and then Terra’s Beemobile pulls up to the curb. Ventus leans out of the window.</p><p>Lifting my arm in greeting, I shout, “One more loose end and then I’ll be free, guys.”</p><p>“That’s cool!” Ven shouts back.</p><p>And so the waiting game begins.</p><p>Five minutes pass. I pull out my phone.</p><p>Ten minutes pass. Ventus gets out of the van and starts showing the kid pictures of penguins that he took at work.</p><p>Fifteen minutes pass. I begin to realize just how vast his collection of penguin photos is. “Ballpark, how many of those have you taken?” I ask as we near the twenty minute mark.</p><p>“Thousands,” is his immediate reply.</p><p>“I like that one,” Vivi says suddenly, pointing furiously at Ventus’ phone at a photo of a smaller penguin mid-fall. “It’s funny. I like it. Its face is funny.”</p><p>A car pulls up to the sidewalk as he says this, an older man lurching out of the driver’s seat and stumbling towards us. He’s on the heavier side with a pale face and heavy bags under his dark eyes. “I’m here, Vivi. I’m here,” he wheezes. He looks ancient; easily in his late 80s or early 90’s.</p><p>Vivi jumps up and hugs him around the waist before turning to wave us off. “Bye-bye Ven!”</p><p>Ven waves as well.</p><p>No farewell for me, I see.</p><p>Eh. Kids.</p><p>Ventus and I head over to the van after this, Ventus hopping back in the front seat while I climb into the back, strapping a retroactively installed seatbelt across my front as Terra starts the engine and a blast of hot air slaps us in the face. Even though the heat makes me realize just how cold I am — It’s nice. It’s a <em>relief</em> — I point out, “You don’t have to turn that on for my sake. It’s almost a hundred. You must be dying.”</p><p>“So is the van,” Ventus snarks back.</p><p>“A/C is out of fluid,” Terra adds, which makes sense. The A/C — much like my seat and all the seatbelts — is retroactively installed and there’s really no way of knowing if it’s out until it’s… Well, out. Though this might be the same case for cars in general. I don’t exactly have one. “I gotta keep the air going anyways or the van will overheat.”</p><p>“And what if <em>you</em> overheat?” I tease.</p><p>“Then you can put your hands on my face and cool me down like a proper human ice cube.”</p><p>He’s not completely off the mark there.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The park is only a few minutes away, and Ventus is bouncing like a kid when we drag the basket out of the back and head past the “Warning: Bees” sign. We make our way around parents and their kids, games of catch, and the occasional barbecue until we reach the center-most section of the park. It remains mostly abandoned, with the clearest areas within direct line-of-sight of the beehive Terra upkeeps in the center of a clover field.</p><p>As soon as the blanket is settled and the food broken into, a few bees float our way, settling on Terra’s hair and shoulders.</p><p>“They know their daddy,” Ventus teases, speaking in stiff Spanish. It’s relieving to hear after so long speaking in English. It feels more private.</p><p>Terra agrees with a nod and a laugh, replying similarly. “Yeah, even when he’s beat to hell.”</p><p>He certainly has been beaten to hell. The hits Paine got in have bloomed over his face, one eye swollen and cheek a deep violet that makes me glad Paine is long gone. (Allegedly.) Hopefully in two weeks the bruises will fade and the whole thing will be far behind us.</p><p>Ventus passes me a beer. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have my hydroxyzine today. He offers one to Terra, but is waved off.</p><p>“Not drinking?” I ask, curious, if a bit relieved.</p><p>“I’m <em>driving</em> after this,” he drawls back.</p><p>Yeah, I’m an idiot.</p><p>Ventus puts some music playing on his phone. The sandwiches are good — pulled pork with cucumber and spicy mustard. When Terra breaks out some pineapple for dessert I take a breath and say, “My mom has three months to live,” and it feels like ripping off a bandaid maybe a little too fast without picking at the edges first.</p><p>“Oh shit.”</p><p>“Jesus fuck.”</p><p>Then I break.</p><p>I drink.</p><p>We all cry a bit. Ventus gives a toast. It’s poignant and I’m pretty sure some of it is in Latin. He’s calm but dramatic and classy as hell in a soft, quiet way.</p><p>I don’t know what we did to deserve him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They come back with me to see her — Terra even breaks a few of his rules — but she’s asleep so they leave quick.</p><p>And then I’m alone as you can be in a house with a woman who’s dying and the person she hired to manage her pain.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Later that week, Thursday August 19th</strong>
</p><p>It’s decided that instead of practice we’ll get pizza. Ventus tags along, as he tends to do. I fade in and out, not caring to listen to Ven and Leon knee deep in a debate about legalization vs. decriminalization of certain controlled substances while Lea laughs across the table, correcting them on the specific wording of obscure laws.</p><p>Eventually Tera leans over, nudging my side and whispering in low Spanish, “Now might be a good time to break the news to them about Alte.”</p><p>“Do I have to?” I whine dramatically to hide the anxiety that curls suddenly in my stomach.</p><p>“No,” is the matter-of-fact reply.</p><p>“Why must you push me so?”</p><p>“I’m not pushing jack shit, you big baby.”</p><p>Playfully nudging him with my knee, I down the rest of my beer before setting the glass back on the table. Leaning all the way back in the booth, I say loud enough to be heard over the evolving debate over MDMA, “Guys, I’ve got news.”</p><p>It’s both comforting and alarming how fast they fall silent. Can they tell it’s serious? Or is this carryover from when I tried to tell them last time?</p><p>I fill them in on what I can. Mom is sick. She has three months. She’s staying at home for a bit. I’m not allowed to know the specifics.</p><p>The first thing I expect is the first thing I get; hugs. Lots of hugs. Specifically from Lea, who wraps his arms around me — cast be damned — and doesn’t let go for a solid ten minutes as I eat pizza around his excessively long limbs. Leon offers me a platitude that he probably came up with himself that upon being pressed will lie and say it is from some book on philosophy he can’t remember the name of.</p><p>Lea untangles himself from me and reaches into the inside pocket of his vest. It’s a slim thing, black and riddled with safety pins and patches that hugs his too-thin body like a glove, similar to one he had in High School. As he pulls a small bag of gummy bears out of it I realize it probably <em>is</em> the same vest he wore in High School. “My friend gave me some edibles earlier. If you wanna relax a bit, you can have some.”</p><p>“You sure?” I ask. “Those things are pretty pricey.”</p><p>He laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish them before they melt.”</p><p>So I take the gummy while Terra laughs over the words, “The penguins don’t drug test.” It tastes dry and a bit melted, so I swallow it quick.</p><p>It takes a few minutes to hit; for the world to just… lose its edge. Sometimes I forget how loud everything is. How bright. How painful it is to look at things when the sun is out. I spend so long staring at my phone or at the ground that I don’t even think about it. But as the world loses its edge I take off my sunglasses and enjoy for the first time in a long while the clatter of dishes, idle chatter filling the restaurant, and the old-fashioned light that hangs over our table.</p><p>Though the sirens down the street still hurt. Especially as they get closer.</p><p>“You look tired,” Terra says just as Leon turns to look out the window, saying, “They’re setting up tape. We should get the van out before we get stuck.”</p><p>We gather our things and head out onto the street, hurrying down the sidewalk as an ambulance sets up in front of a dingy place we’ve done a few gigs at before.</p><p>“I think Hella Barbarella’s playing there tonight. Think one of them finally overdosed?” Lea laughs.</p><p>“Not funny,” Terra snaps as he unlocks the van.</p><p>We get back to Terra’s house before too long, even with his geratric driving habits, and hang out for a bit before Leon takes his leave. It’s only a few minutes before Ventus climbs up into the attic. Terra goes into the kitchen, saying something about taking care of dishes before they pile up.</p><p>Then Lea turns to me, right hand idly rubbing at his cast. “Hey, uh… Could I possibly crash at your place? I know your mom is sick and all, but I’m… I’m asking, I guess.”</p><p>Terra leans into the room from the kitchen. “Did something happen?”</p><p>Lea makes a face at him. Eyebrows scrunch and a mouth purses sharply.</p><p>Throwing up soapy hands, Terra goes back where he came from.</p><p>I watch this, then shrug. “Did you and your girlfriend have a fight or something?”</p><p>“Or something, yeah,” he admits. “Usually I’d just crash in my car, but it’s gonna get… We’re in the middle of a heat wave, you know?”</p><p>Shit, right. “Yeah, we’ll go back and ask Mom now, if you want. If she’s cool with it, we can set up the couch for you.”</p><p>“Thanks. I… I owe you one.”</p><p>“Don’t thank me yet,” I remind him. Stepping over to the kitchen, I lean in to tell Terra, “We’re gonna get going. Have a good night, okay?”</p><p>He waves one bruised hand in our direction in reply.</p><p>It’s out the door, down the stairs, and up the street before we get to my place. Mom is in bed, tucked in and propped up on a small mountain of pillows. When I ask if Lea can stay she laughs.</p><p>“Of <em>course</em> he can stay. That little angel can stay as long as he needs.”</p><p>“Lea,” I remind her. “Not Leon.”</p><p>“Oh?” She huffs quietly, confused. “Lea? Is he the…” She blinks. “Giant one? Ginger? Kilts?”</p><p>“That’s the one.”</p><p>“He can stay if he makes me food,” she says flatly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“What I remember of that boy is an awkward, gangly, anxious mess, but he made me a mean grilled cheese fifteen years ago and I still have dreams about it.”</p><p>“You’re kidding.”</p><p>“I do not kid about grilled cheese.”</p><p>Well, that was easy. “Cool. Thanks mom. I’ll let him know. When do you expect rent?”</p><p>There’s a moment that passes where she looks at me, face blank, before saying with her lips in a flat line and her tone entirely serious, “Like any proper landlord I require first and last month’s rent upon move-in.”</p><p>“So… you want them now?”</p><p>“Yes. I want two. Right now.”</p><p>She really is serious about that grilled cheese. Heading back out into the living room, I take a seat on the arm of the couch and look across at Lea, whose legs are so long he looks like he’s sitting in a kid’s chair. “Hey,” I greet.</p><p>“So what’s the verdict?” He doesn’t even look at me when he asks. It looks like he’s stuck in a stare at mom’s Cary Grant DVD set.</p><p>“You can stay, but she wants you to make her grilled cheese sandwiches. You are officially the cheesemeister.” I expect him to laugh. To snort and say what a strange tradeoff that is.</p><p>He does not laugh.</p><p>Lea seems to shrink on the couch, shoulders drawing in and knees knocking together under the hem of his kilt. His hands — big things, never not affectionate — slide into his hair, long and greasy and down to his shoulders. It’s an awkward movement with his cast. “Fucking Christ,” he says just as his eyes spill over. For a moment he looks like a cartoon. There are so many tears that it just can’t be real. It’s gotta be a drawing.</p><p>But Lea isn’t a drawing. “What’s going on?” I ask.</p><p>“I’m homeless again,” he admits, and it’s that last part — that “again” — that messes me up. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m not… I’m not okay. We had a big fight and she kicked me out and… This has <em>never</em> happened in the summer. Usually I can just crash in my car until I find someone new, but that’s dangerous this time of year, you know?”</p><p>Hey.</p><p>What the fuck?</p><p>“This isn’t the first-” I try to jump in, but he’s still babbling. It’s a lot to take in at once. He lost his job. His current girlfriend got annoyed with him once she saw him more often, as they <em>always</em> do, apparently. He calls himself clingy and pathetic and he talks until he’s gasping, hands fumbling for the pouch on his kilt to pull out his rescue inhaler. He shakes it quickly before bringing it to his lips for a sharp, desperate breath.</p><p>There’s a thump and I look up to find Mom in the hallway, one arm on the wall for balance as she stumbles towards us. It’s more strength than I’ve seen from her in a while. By the time I think to stand and help she’s already circling the couch.</p><p>Lea shies away when she sits by him, but falls into her when her hands pull him close. He goes quiet in her arms as she says, “Your voice carries very well.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking.</p><p>“Stay as long as you need,” she says, voice firm. “If my daughter vouches for you, then so do I.”</p><p>Lea clings to her for hours, even after she falls asleep. When he joins her, I get them a blanket from her room, sparing a smile for the DSP.</p><p>As I lay it over them, I take a moment to really look Lea over. Greasy hair, bags under his eyes, bitten nails, bruises, tattered clothes that might not just be a fashion choice… Clothes I’ve seen him wear for <em>years</em>.</p><p>How long has this been going on?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Lea-d Astray</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the first chapter focusing on Lea. This chapter was a little late, and so will be the next chapter. Things are kicking up in my life so this is taking a back seat.</p>
<p>Much love to Cap for editing, as usual, and Arnaud for keeping me sane.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Friday August 20th</strong>
</p>
<p>Waking to my alarm is harder than it should be. It gets snoozed six times before I pull myself out of bed. Another day, another pile of shit. Just gotta keep shovelling. Shovelling, shovelling, gotta keep shovelling. Eat your food, drink your water, shovel all the shit.</p>
<p>I have a feeling Leon would seriously make that into a song.</p>
<p>Lea is in the living room when I head in for breakfast.</p>
<p>“Do you mind wrapping my cast so I can take a shower?” he asks, biting his lip like he expects me to say no.</p>
<p>In a half-woken daze I wrap his arm and turn to the stove to… find breakfast, apparently. Eggs. Toast. Fried… apples?</p>
<p>“Help yourself. Alte and I ate an hour ago,” he says before going into the bathroom.</p>
<p>I’ve got a mouthful of toast — did he salt this? — when he comes out in a loose shirt, shorts, a towel around his hair, and looking… paler? How long had it been since he’d had a shower? He managed not to smell gross but… I just… I have a lot of questions. But you can’t just <em>ask</em> these kinds of questions. You need the right atmosphere. Blankets. Movies. A large bottle of vodka.</p>
<p>“You want a ride to work?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Depends. Did you sleep last night?”</p>
<p>Lea laughs at this, rubbing at his hair with the towel. “Better than I have in a while. Got about three hours in.”</p>
<p>“You can crash in my bed if you need while I’m at work.” Even as I say it, I question it. It’s not like he smells, but maybe that offer is a bit… intimate? At least to offer. But it’s not like I care. It’s not like I’ll need it while I’m at work, anyways. “How’s your arm? Are you able to drive okay? You’ve been moving it a lot.”</p>
<p>“Doc says it needs to move a bit to heal. And I can’t feel much pain. They’ve got me on the good stuff, since I’m pretty drug resistant.”</p>
<p>“Gotta be careful with those,” I comment without thinking.</p>
<p>“I’m being careful. You want that ride?”</p>
<p>Turning to my phone, I check the time. I could actually drink some coffee at a reasonable pace if he drove me to work. “Sure. If we make it a habit, I’ll fill your tank for you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to do that.”</p>
<p>“No, but let’s do it anyways,” I snark back. Glancing back at him, I take in his dripping hair and cutoff jean shorts that had probably been full length pants for someone much shorter than him in another life. “You asked me for help, so you might as well accept the very least I can do.”</p>
<p>For a second he just breaths. In and out, chest expanding and shrinking in the odd silence.</p>
<p>“I’m always saying people should help each other. Stop acting so surprised when I follow through,” I tease. Maybe it comes out a little bitter. But maybe I am bitter. Bitter that he’s been in this situation so long. Bitter he never came to me before now. Bitter that I never made it clear enough that I would help.</p>
<p>Bitter that I never noticed he needed it.</p>
<p>“When I get home, do you want to look over your resume together? You can put me down as a reference.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I’ll pick you up from work, then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Lea is outside waiting when I lock up, hanging out by the door with a grin and his keys swinging around one finger. “Ready to go?” he asks after Belle takes off for the night.</p>
<p>Lea’s car is a four-door sedan with a tinny stereo and is scary-clean. There’s not so much as a cigarette butt, and I know he smokes.</p>
<p>“I don’t do that shit in the car,” is his answer when I ask. “I know what it’s like to get in someone’s car and not be able to breathe. I don’t want to do that to anyone.”</p>
<p>We arrive at home within a few short minutes — Lea might be a cautious driver, but he’s got nothing on Terra — and then he’s ushering me onto the couch, showing me a resume that he worked out on his phone.</p>
<p>“You should do this on a laptop,” I point out.</p>
<p>“I don’t have one.”</p>
<p>“Then fucking <em>ask for mine</em>, dumbass!” I fire back, leaping up from the couch to head for my room. I’m being dramatic, again. Am I really so protective of him? Or is it just my desire to… what? Fill that role of the good friend that I see in movies? I’d like to be thought of fondly, but I don’t… I don’t understand that. When he starts to follow and protest I snap, “Sit your ass down; this is happening.”</p>
<p>“You’re very forceful,” he says, falling back onto the couch with a sigh.</p>
<p>“And you’re an idiot,” I snap back.</p>
<p>Maybe all of this is an act, but it’s the person I want to be.</p>
<p>I wonder if non-Autistic people have thoughts like this. If they think they might be over-acting something, or compare things to movies whenever they say them. If people quote movies because they think a fictional sentence makes more sense than their own minds.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Dinner is grilled cheese sandwiches. The bread is fried on both sides, the way Terra does. Did Lea get this from Terra? Or did Terra get it from Lea? Either way, it’s good shit and I would not mind eating like this for a few days.</p>
<p>“I’m not really sure what to look for,” Lea says, bending over a magazine.</p>
<p>He and mom are looking at apartments, and I’m just… <em>Fuck</em>, this grilled cheese is good.</p>
<p>“I like the personal gardens on this one.”</p>
<p>The cheese is still gooey, and there’s paprika on this bread and it’s so <em>crunchy</em>.</p>
<p>“I don’t really garden, though. Oh, also it’s pretty expensive.”</p>
<p>“<em>All of it</em> looks expensive,” Alte sighs. “It wasn’t nearly this bad when I was your age. We bought this place for pennies compared to what you kids have to pay in rent. It’s robbery, I swear.”</p>
<p>I glance up in time to catch Lea’s face twisting. He must be trying <em>so</em> hard not to correct her on the proper legal term. Probably extortion or something. It’s <em>torturing</em> him. His lips are pursed, eyes wide, and there’s this forced grin on his face that I am getting far too much enjoyment out of.</p>
<p>“It’s definitely armed robbery,” I add just to watch him turn the expression on me. “<em>Highway</em> robbery.”</p>
<p>He looks manic.</p>
<p>It’s hilarious.</p>
<p>From the edge of the room, mom’s DSP for the night — Fran, the tall beautiful glass of water who I Look At Respectfully — clears her throat. “If I may interject, there is an apartment complex a friend of mine lives in by the edge of town that might have an opening. It’s not very expensive.”</p>
<p>Lea’s head swivels over towards her, and he nods, whipping out his phone. “That’s great! Do you know the name?”</p>
<p>“I don’t, but I can text my friend to ask for the number for the front desk.” She pulls out her phone, then pauses. “To be clear, this isn’t the type of place you would wander at night.”</p>
<p>My stomach lurches.</p>
<p>Lea just grins. “I’ll make sure to carry something with me, then.”</p>
<p>It’s weird. It’s like hearing another language entirely and realizing you understand it.</p>
<p>
  <em>The apartment is in a poor part of town where the lights go out and don’t get fixed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You will run into Heartless.</em>
</p>
<p>And he thinks that’s <em>fine</em>.</p>
<p>It’s not fine. But does he really have an option?</p>
<p>He’s on the phone within a few minutes, stepping away from the table to talk to the manager in a tone more professional than I’ve heard from him in years. At the end he sits down at the table, grinning ear to ear.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s my privilege showing, because I’ve always lived in a nice neighborhood, but I’m scared. He shouldn’t have to move into a place where Heartless roam the streets at night, patrolled by the watch and the occasional short-lived vigilante. He deserves to be safe. <em>Everyone</em> deserves to be safe.</p>
<p>Or maybe I’ve just spent so little time there that I’m just a privileged brat who thinks the grass is greener where I live.</p>
<p>But I still want him to be safe.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Two Days Later, Sunday August 22nd</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Xion Stoner: Regular cancelled. Wanna hike?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi: Sure, if you don’t mind company.</em>
</p>
<p>I stare down at my phone for a while. The studio is locked. The alarm is set. The bus is here.</p>
<p>And there it goes; going, going, <em>gone</em>.</p>
<p>And I’m still here, sitting in front of the doors with a little boy in a massive jacket who’s too scared to talk to me.</p>
<p>Vivi’s grandfather <em>really</em> needs to get better about this.</p>
<p>Hopping into the chat with Lea as I watch a familiar puke-colored car pull up to the curb, I watch as Vivi runs off before dialing.</p>
<p>He answers after two rings. “<em>A phone call? Time sensitive question?</em>”</p>
<p>“I missed the bus. Can you pick me up? Also, Xion wants to go hiking. Are you game?”</p>
<p>There’s the distinct sputter of a blown raspberry before he replies. “<em>Am I game for spending time with Xion? Yes, stupid. I’m always game for spending time with Xion.</em>”</p>
<p>One of these days these idiots are going to elope and we will spend a solid decade roasting the everloving shit out of them for it.</p>
<p>Lea picks Xion up after we both get dressed — though Lea’s idea of “exercise clothes” is a far cry from sensible. It’s not like I’m about to whip a pair of sweatpants that will fit a 6’ 6” man out of my ass, though, so I keep my mouth shut.</p>
<p>It’s one of the further hiking spots. Benefits of driving. The brush is dry this time of year, and stabs my ankles when I step too far off the beaten path. Xion and Lea are talking full speed about something I can barely follow. I want to talk to them. I want to jump between them and talk full speed about something like they’re doing right now. I want their eyes and they’re hands… and I want to shove my hand down Xion’s little shorts.</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em> I’m horny.</p>
<p>There’s a cool breeze I’d should pay more attention to. I’ve always found it’s best to focus on things other than conversations I’m not invited into, and asses I’m not invited to touch.</p>
<p>Even if sometimes it feels like a cramp in my stomach. Nausea. <em>Anxiety</em>. My brain needs attention right now, apparently. Being a third wheel with these two was a bad idea.</p>
<p>Lea gets a phone call halfway up the path. It’s from an antique store in the next town over that he applied to. They schedule an interview.</p>
<p>As soon as it ends Xion asks if he’s finally stepping away from construction.</p>
<p>Lea laughs and replies that he doesn’t want to break his back before he gets to forty. The realization hits me like a sucker punch.</p>
<p>She doesn’t know.</p>
<p>She doesn’t know <em>any of it</em>.</p>
<p>The thought shouldn’t feel good; the knowledge that I know things in his life that the woman he’s been pining over for decades doesn’t. That I’m deeper into his life that she is.</p>
<p>It feels <em>satisfying</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>When we drop Xion off I don’t ask why Lea hasn’t told her about his circumstances. In my head I justify this as not prying into his life. But I can’t deny the part of me that says that by not calling out his lies by omission I’m making him more dependent on me. The more dependent he is, the more attention I get.</p>
<p>I’m not sure why I want so much attention. Maybe I don’t feel seen. Maybe I need more feedback from my surroundings. I feel like I’m going to go nuts without it — like I’m going to dwindle away and the bad emotions will fill me up until there’s nothing else; not even a personality.</p>
<p>These feelings are so <em>annoying</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Unable to keep my mouth shut longer than two hours, as soon as Lea pulls into the neighborhood I ask, “I know you moved out in a rush, but do you have any interview clothes? You weren’t exactly dressed for hiking.”</p>
<p>Lea laughs.</p>
<p>… Which is apparently his reply because he just keeps driving.</p>
<p>“Is that a no?”</p>
<p>“Do you want to see my trunk?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Sure, if it’s relevant.” I’m really lost here.</p>
<p>As soon as he pulls by the curb, Lea parks and hops out before the engine is even done idling. I jump out to join him behind the car, watching him pop the trunk before stepping aside with a wave of his arm like he’s revealing a prize on a game show. Congratulations! You’ve won… a duffel bag of clothes, a bass guitar, and a box of miscellaneous goods.</p>
<p>“What am I looking at?” I’m not going to like the answer, am I?</p>
<p>“This…” He pats the trunk, leaning against the side of the car, expression oddly blank. “This is everything I own.”</p>
<p>Turning my eyes from him to the trunk, I don’t bother to hide my confusion. “Did your ex not give you most of your stuff back or something? If she stole from you, we can call the police.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t lose anything,” he corrects me softly, arms crossing over his chest. He looks down for a moment, then back up at me. “This has been going on for a really long time. At first I didn’t know how to tell you guys, and when I kept falling into the same pattern over and over again I figured it was my cross to bear.”</p>
<p>Sometimes I forget that Lea is Catholic.</p>
<p>“That’s bullshit. Why didn’t you tell anyone?” My words are forceful, but my voice isn’t. I intend for it to be, but I just sound tired. Defeated. A little angry, but mostly sad.</p>
<p>Lea gives a shrug at this. “Terra’s got way too much on his plate, you’re usually helping him, and anything that gets to Leon will eventually reach Xion.”</p>
<p>“And Roxas?” I’m only vaguely aware of this name — a Ventus doppelgänger who hangs around Lea and Xion like their eternal third wheel, a good decade younger than them.</p>
<p>“Roxas isn’t an option.”</p>
<p>“Why not? His parents are rich, right?”</p>
<p>“Because I have feelings for him, okay? Like… Marriage kinda feelings.”</p>
<p>Hey, what now? “I thought you liked Xion,” I laugh. The idea of Lea settling down is a strange one. I don’t think he’s had a relationship last longer than four months.</p>
<p>“And I like Roxas, too, okay? Get off my ass about it.”</p>
<p>Oh shit. “You’re not kidding.”</p>
<p>Hands fanning out over the roof of his trunk, Lea pushes it closed before hopping atop, taking a seat. “I never kid when it comes to them. I almost pulled a Leon once when Roxas was disappointed in me, when he found out I dropped out of law school.”</p>
<p>“Pulled a Leon?” Maybe I shouldn’t ask.</p>
<p>“I just… I didn’t feel great, and I drank too much, and then I… I did something stupid. And I’d just rather Roxas doesn’t know just how often I collossally fuck up, okay?”</p>
<p>Holy shit.</p>
<p>“Things get messy when someone’s helping you,” he continues simply. “I don’t want to risk that with him or Xion.”</p>
<p>Turning around, I hop up on the trunk with him. The metal is hot against my thighs, warming the parts of me that feel frozen. I’m cold again. How long have I been this cold?</p>
<p>“So you’ll just… never go out with either of them?” I ask, confused. “That doesn’t sound…” Sound what? Fulfilling? Happy making? Smart? Like… love?</p>
<p>But what do <em>I</em> know about love? What do I know about pining or mutual respect or healthy relationships? I don’t.</p>
<p>“It’s a mess, but it’s better this way.”</p>
<p>“You sound like you need therapy,” I joke.</p>
<p>“The insurance I get through the state doesn’t cover mental health,” is the deadpan reply that fuckin’... wrecks me. It just wrecks me.</p>
<p>My throat has closed up a little, but I’ll be fine. I’ll be just <em>fine</em>. I just need a minute. And after I get it I say, “I wish you had told me,” like I’m his mother or something.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to tell you <em>now</em>.” The insistence is a dry monotone that sharpens into a snap, and then he’s running a hand through his hair, starting with his bangs and combing them away from his face forcefully. “I’ve been in the hole so long I should know my way out by now. Instead, like an idiot, I’ve just been digging myself deeper.”</p>
<p>“You’re not an idiot.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say I was. I’m the smartest person you’ll ever meet.”</p>
<p>This isn’t the unhinged sorrow from a few days ago. This is sharp. Cold. Maybe a bit resigned and angry. He doesn’t want to tell me these things. Maybe he needs to, but he doesn’t want to. Should I stop prying and allow him to come to me? Or do I keep pushing so he has an excuse to unload in a safe environment? Will he blame me for it later? Will he hate me?</p>
<p>This is exhausting. There’s a lethargy in my bones. Fatigue. It physically hurts, and the idea of sliding off the roof of Lea’s trunk and onto the pavement is a painful one. I can already imagine the click of joints and the ache that will settle in for the rest of the day if I stand now. But I can’t just sit here forever, staring at my feet. They rest against the bumper, boots firm against the lip, but his dangle near the pavement, long and gangly with pale white skin and sparse red hair. It’s like a sunset. I’ve always wondered how it could be so violently colorful, and if he dyed it. But while I might not know if the carpet matches the drapes, I do know the grass does.</p>
<p>Eventually the grass shifts. His beat up sneakers hit the ground. It’s time to get up.</p>
<p>It’s time to get up.</p>
<p>It’s time to get up.</p>
<p>“Good morning,” I whisper to myself accidentally as I slide off the trunk, thought unintentionally coming out my mouth.</p>
<p>“What was that?”</p>
<p>“Nothing.” My legs ache just like I thought they would.</p>
<p>Mom is asleep on the couch when we get in, head limp against the armrest. Her DSP is new; a stocky younger woman with curly red hair that bursts from a sloppy ponytail. She holds her fingers to pursed lips, then turns back to the phone on her lap.</p>
<p>“C’mon. Let’s go to my room,” I suggest, heading straight for the hall. I can hear Lea following, and when we finally make it into my room I tell him to close the door.</p>
<p>“I think this is the first time I’ve been in here.” Lea sounds… His voice is light. Breathy. Wistful?</p>
<p>Taking a seat on my bed — still the same twin I grew up with — I motion to the room. “Make yourself at home. If you can find somewhere to sit you might even get a prize.”</p>
<p>He snorts. “Prize?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Like a high five, or a participation trophy.”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll take my chances standing,” Lea snarks back. Stepping further into the room, he glances over the piles of boxes curiously. “What’s with the move-in chic?”</p>
<p>“Move-out, actually. I was going to move in with Paine. That obviously fell through. I just never got around to unpacking.” Never really finished packing. Not that I know how.</p>
<p>“Do you want to do it now?”</p>
<p>I wave him off. “Gonna have to pass. Tired.”</p>
<p>He chuckles, then reaches for a box, shifting it onto another.</p>
<p>“Didn’t I just say no?”</p>
<p>“Just trying to get enough floor space to sit. I’ve decided not to stand the whole time,” he fires back. Shuffling around a bit more, he shoves a box to the side with his foot, chewing his lip thoughtfully.</p>
<p>Leaning back, I fall onto my bed fully with a sigh. Is he really about to sort my bedroom under the guise of finding floor space?</p>
<p>At my side, the bed dips. “What-”</p>
<p>“Move over a bit, would you?” Lea asks.</p>
<p>Sitting up, I scoot back until my back is flush to the headboard, legs drawing up to my chest.</p>
<p>Lea is sitting bare inches from me, a larger box on his lap. The flaps hang over the sides. They’re a bit worn from my not-so-gentle handling during the packing process. Reaching in, Lea withdraws a trophy. It’s plastic, painted a blinding gold that flakes off onto his hands. “Taekwondo Championship, third division, second place, Aqua Toyoguchi,” he reads quietly. He’s got this smile. It’s the kind that crinkles his eyes and furrows his eyebrows. “I always wanted a trophy like this. You’ve got so many.”</p>
<p>“They’re shiny.” It’s all I can really say about them. I don’t spare them much thought. “Didn’t you get a lot of them, too? Your mom had you in all those activities. Chess club; cross-country — that sort of thing.”</p>
<p>“She didn’t let me keep them. She kept saying that they were prideful.”</p>
<p>“Harsh,” I say, and while it sounds like a throwaway word it doesn’t <em>feel</em> like one. I haven’t heard Lea talk about his parents in a while.</p>
<p>“According to her, Pride was the worst sin,” he tells me, and he sounds kind of broken. But as he turns to me his voice is downright <em>giddy</em> as he asks, “Did I ever tell you what my grounds for emancipation were?”</p>
<p>He got <em>emancipated</em>?! “No.”</p>
<p>The trophy looks so small in his hands as he turns it over, shifting it to catch the light. For a moment I see his reflection in the surface of the paint, what parts haven’t flaked away. “Reckless endangerment.”</p>
<p>“And you won?”</p>
<p>“The judge even granted me a restraining order.”</p>
<p>Holy shit. “What did they do for the judge to do that?”</p>
<p>“They sent me to conversion therapy.”</p>
<p>I think… I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. There’s just… this <em>not good</em> barrage of feelings curling in my stomach. There’s disgust. Disbelief. Anger. Fear. <em>Rage</em>.</p>
<p>How dare they? How dare people run those things, and how <em>dare</em> people put their <em>children</em> in the hands of those-</p>
<p>“Hey, Aqua, <em>hey</em>.”</p>
<p>A large hand is in front of my face, fingers snapping to draw my attention.</p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry. Keep going,” I apologize quickly.</p>
<p>“You’re shaking.”</p>
<p>I am. Grabbing tightly onto my elbows, I attempt a smile to dismiss his concerns. “It’s just rage. Were you okay?”</p>
<p>He shrugs, leaning back away from me. “Well yeah, obviously. The first night there I broke out and hotwired a car. Drove home. When I confronted my parents my mom told me to go back to the camp.” He sighs. “So I ran away and couch surfed while I filed for emancipation. They didn’t torture me or anything. I didn’t give them a chance.”</p>
<p>“I straight up want to kill your parents right now,” I admit.</p>
<p>Lea shakes his head at this, then says, “Don’t tell anyone about that, will you? People don’t need to know that about me.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, man. Scout’s honor and all that. My lips are sealed,” I promise, miming zipping my mouth shut.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” he says, shoulders sagging. He turns back to the box, staring into what must have been a haphazard mess of plastic and flaking paint. “Trophies are nice.”</p>
<p>And then it’s quiet.</p>
<p>So, so quiet.</p>
<p>And I am furious.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Lea doesn’t leave the room.</p>
<p>When the sun goes down he stays with me. Maybe it’s because he feels vulnerable. Or it could be because my bed is nicer than the couch. It could also be because at 10PM Myde shows up and I catch him and Lea making eyes at each other in the kitchen, and Lea doesn’t want to be caught snoring in front of mom’s Hot Night Shift DSP.</p>
<p>I think it’s mostly that last one.</p>
<p>(Two guys in a small house two rooms apart ‘cause they’re too gay.)</p>
<p>We don’t talk about his parents anymore. We don’t talk about conversion therapy or the time he spent homeless or Xion or Roxas or anything else important. Instead we lay side by side on my twin bed, my head on one of his shoulders, looking at memes on our phones.</p>
<p>Adulthood is not what I expected.</p>
<p>And that’s okay.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Hand Me Down Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lea looks up at the store in question, meaning I am not the only person being punished with the sight of a wide glass window filled with a multitude of detached, filthy mannequin hands. They’re suspended from wires to form something that might be considered art just as easily as an affront to humanity. If someone put this up in Radiant they would have a letter from the town in their mailbox and the mayor halfway up their ass in a week. “Hand Me Down Again” could easily be a setting out of an early 70’s slasher/gore subgenre film that would star a porn star trying to get into acting via the role of a butcher-knife wielding serial killer. It would be the kind of movie where the graphic content and homoerotic undertones would get it banned from distribution within a week of release, and would only be accessible through very specific searches on Ebay, where you could find it on VHS for five bucks and some change.<br/>“I love it,” Lea gasps.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wish this second hand store was real.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Two Days Later, Tuesday August 24th</strong>
</p><p>Lea has to crouch for me to be able to fix his tie, jerking it ineffectively from side to side until it finally deigns to lay straight. I’m definitely not the best person for this job. The most experience I have with ties comes from my Scene phase in high school. Maybe Xion would be a better fit for this, or their friend Roxas. Roxas is rich, right?</p><p>But Roxas is not here, and it <em>looks</em> straight, so it will have to do. “There, all done,” I declare, taking a step away so that he can stand. It’s like watching an accordion unfold, if an accordion was six and a half feet tall. (They might be. I don’t know jack shit about accordions.) We’re in the parking lot of an antique store, the early morning sunrise in the distance betraying just how ungodly the hour is. There are two other cars in the parking lot, and it’s not quite warm yet. There’s a cold breeze that runs through the lot, and I shrink a bit into my leather jacket.</p><p>“Wish me luck?” he asks.</p><p>“Get your ass in there and knock-em dead,” I tease.</p><p>For a moment he stands perfectly still. He looks so strange in a dress shirt, the tie scrounged from the depths of my closet only falling halfway to his stomach. The kilt is something I’m used to, but all the safety pins have been removed, leaving him with something looking more traditional. “Thanks, Aqua,” he says, and the <em>way</em> he says my name is like… warmth.</p><p>I feel warm.</p><p>He goes in, his printed resume in hand and old sneakers squeaking every step of the way.</p><p>Once he’s in the store, I wait. I sit on the trunk. After a while I open up the car and drop into the passenger seat when it gets too cold, reclining as far back as it will let me. I play on my phone, shifting between e-mails and games before writing Terra a text.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Bored. Waiting on a thing. What’s up with you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>Gardening. Listening to the neighbors yell. I think Kathy has been having an affair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>What makes you say that?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind:<br/>He shouted that she “cheated on him.” Direct quote.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Divorce time?</em>
</p><p>I wait for him to reply.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Do you know who gets the kids?</em>
</p><p>I send it more as a joke, as I have no idea if they have kids, and my finger is halfway to switching windows when I receive his reply.</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind: <br/>Okay, turns out he was just angry she cheated on their DIET. They’re doing one together again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi: <br/>OH NO. Kathy, how could you?</em>
</p><p>Bringing my legs up, I settle my feet on top of the seat and curl up sideways, giggling madly. I have no idea which neighbor Kathy is, but frankly I don’t care.</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind: <br/>I think she got sick of cabbage. And fava beans. It’s like this weird keto diet that’s also like… I don’t know. A third vegan? It’s confusing. How are you holding up?</em>
</p><p>Holding up? What am I-</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Right.</p><p>It’s not a bucket of water, but it’s just as fast. Everything is cold; my hands, my legs, my neck. The air is warming up in preparation for a hot summer day and I’m just… <em>freezing</em>. Do I answer honestly? Do I dodge?</p><p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi: <br/>Don’t wanna talk about it.</em>
</p><p>I’d like to go a few more hours without <em>thinking </em>about it.</p><p>
  <em>Hivemind: <br/>Well, I’m always here when you need me.</em>
</p><p>No, Terra’s just always there.</p><p>That was mean.</p><p>But I can’t trust him with these kinds of feelings. What if I piss him off when I’m not at my best? It’s better just to keep things simple.</p><p>A loud whoop comes from somewhere nearby, and my eyes shoot up from my phone to find Lea at my window, hands presumably drawn up to beat a drumroll on the glass. “I got the job!” he cheers loudly instead. “I got the <em>fucking</em> job!”</p><p>“Congrats!” I shout through the window a bit belatedly.</p><p>Sprinting over to the driver’s side, Lea climbs in and grabs my face, pressing an enthusiastic kiss into my hair before pulling away. “You’re my favorite, now.”</p><p>“I was literally just sitting in the car doing nothing,” I point out.</p><p>“Moral support is important,” he replies glibly, pulling his seatbelt awkwardly over his chest. It doesn’t even fit over his shoulder, instead being threaded under his arm. He’s crowded in like it’s a clown car, hunching over the steering wheel with the seat all the way back. Turning the key in the ignition, he turns to me as the car rumbles to life. “They said I shouldn’t wear a kilt when I’m working, so I should probably drop by the second hand store and pick up some shorts. They’d rather I wore pants but they understand it’s hard to find any in my size. I can drop you off at home, unless you want to join me.”</p><p>He needs pants. “Why don’t we take a road trip? Balamb. One hour there, one hour back. They’ve got a bunch of second hand stores. It’ll be my treat.” It’s also the closest city we can get to without needing an escort outside the walls.</p><p>“I can’t let you do that.”</p><p>Reaching up to dramatically pull my sunglasses down my nose, I look Lea dead in the eye. It’s still a bit uncomfortable, but it’s worth it because I think it’s hilarious.</p><p>His eyes are so <em>green</em>. “What?” he asks, baffled, and it’s <em>hilarious</em>.</p><p>“Deal with it.”</p><p>Lea squints at me. “You-”</p><p>“<em>I</em> am your Lesbian Sugar Daddy for the next few days. Just suck it up and drive. I’m filling the tank, anyways. Balamb is one hour away. We can be back before lunch if we find things fast enough. Mom still wants those grilled cheese. You can’t skimp on rent just because…” Oh, fuck. How do I finish this sentence? I’ve joked myself into a corner.</p><p>Much to my relief, Lea replies to my silence with a laugh and a shake of the head. He throws the car in reverse and pulls out of his space before turning toward the road. “Where to, then, Daddy?”</p><p>“Uh, Balamb. Duh.”</p><p>“No, which highway?”</p><p>Highway? What? “Bitch, I don’t drive.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So Lea hates driving in the city, but that might be fine because I don’t think I ever want to come into the city with him at the wheel ever again.</p><p>“I thought that guy was going to kill us,” Lea gasps when we finally make it into the parking lot of the third and final second hand store.</p><p>To be honest, the first two had been a wash. I didn’t really hold much hope for— “Are those mannequin hands?”</p><p>Lea looks up at the store in question, meaning I am not the only person being punished with the sight of a wide glass window filled with a multitude of detached, filthy mannequin hands. They’re suspended from wires to form something that might be considered art just as easily as an affront to humanity. If someone put this up in Radiant they would have a letter from the town in their mailbox and the mayor halfway up their ass in a week. “Hand Me Down Again” could easily be a setting out of an early 70’s slasher/gore subgenre film that would star a porn star trying to get into acting via the role of a butcher-knife wielding serial killer. It would be the kind of movie where the graphic content and homoerotic undertones would get it banned from distribution within a week of release, and would only be accessible through very specific searches on Ebay, where you could find it on VHS for five bucks and some change.</p><p>“I love it,” Lea gasps, throwing the car into park before quickly turning off the engine and stepping out. The accordion that is his body unfolds grandly, and he steps away from the car.</p><p>The door handle is warm as I let myself out into the growing heat of the day, and so is the one on the front of Hand Me Down Again. Inside, mannequins are clad in torn and patched clothing, ribbons and studs hanging off of increasingly strange pieces. Their plastic flesh is marked up with sharpie, and stickers cover every other available inch of space. The walls display not only clothes, but band posters next to shirts and hanging off the hands themselves.</p><p>Is this a punk second hand store? Oh, this is <em>dangerous</em>. This is a treasure trove of shit I would happily wear. There’s even a sign labeling a display that just says “Plaid Flannels,” and when I dare to flip through I am not disappointed.</p><p>“Think any of those would fit me?” Lea asks.</p><p>Glancing back at him, I grin. “Let’s find out.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Three hours.</p><p>By the time we finish going through every article of clothing in the store, <em>three hours</em> have passed. We managed to find a few things that will work for Lea’s newest crack at employment: a pair of skinny jeans long enough to reach just above his ankles, some soft gray slacks that seemed horribly out of place until we realized someone had taken the time to write a communist manifesto up the inside of the pant legs, and a flannel shirt that would be work appropriate once we removed all the safety pins. It was long enough for Lea to tuck in without looking like a parachute. (The moment he tried this one on was the moment I realized just how skinny this guy is.)</p><p>As we walk up to the register, I pause as my attention catches on a nearby shoe rack. “Think they have anything in your size?”</p><p>He snorts. “Not likely.”</p><p>“What’s your size?”</p><p>We both turn to see the attendant looking up at us. Lip ring, hair dyed a pale gray fashioned into little puffy pigtails, and deep brown skin that glows next to a little red ensemble under a deep gray work apron. A He/Him button hangs from the neck strap. He’s small and thin. A barely visible Adam’s Apple. Small hands. He’s quite possibly a trans man. His name tag reads “Thumper.”</p><p>Lea shifts nervously before answering, “Sixteen and a half to seventeen.”</p><p>“I’ve got two in that size,” Thumper says happily. “They’re both under the counter, since they won’t fit on the display.” Leaning back behind the register, he rustles around a bit before pulling up a pair of boots, arms straining with the effort to lift them. “First pair is steel-toed, real leather. They were donated by the same guy who donated those slacks, actually. Be careful who you take them off in front of, though.”</p><p>“Uh… Why?” I ask.</p><p>Grabbing the tongue of the boot, Thumper pulls it down to reveal small, neat handwriting printed repeatedly over the inner fabric reading, “FUCK THE POLICE. FUCK THE KKK. FUCK THE ESTABLISHMENT. FUCK THE CHURCH.”</p><p>“I love them,” Lea whispers beside me. “How much?”</p><p>“Five bucks. All our shoes are one flat price. Can’t preach anarchy if you turn around and overcharge everyone for donated goods,” Thumper says happily. “I recommend some gel insoles as well. They’re cheap, but they’ll delay back pain from uneven wear.”</p><p>When I glance at Lea, he looks downright giddy as his hands inch toward the shoes, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch them. His lips are twisted in a half smile, eyebrows furrowed tight together. “I’ve got some of those. Can I try them on?”</p><p>Thumper motions to a chair near the shoe display with one hand. “Knock yourself out, man.”</p><p>He reaches forward, grabbing the boots off the counter. They’re black with thick soles, hardly worn. A silver buckle sits on the side, which Lea carefully avoids touching. Moving over to the chair and settling into it like an older cousin at the kid’s table during Thanksgiving, he slips out of his sneakers, placing them on the floor.</p><p>My attention should be on Lea. On his potential new boots. Instead, as he removes the gel inserts from his old shoes my eyes are glued to the bit of duct tape on the bottom of the sneaker that has peeled away to reveal a small hole. As soon as Lea stands in the new pair I ask, “Do they fit?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, voice light.</p><p>“Are they comfy?”</p><p>“<em>Really</em> comfy.”</p><p>“Do you like them?”</p><p>“A lot.”</p><p>Turning back to Thumper I ask, “What else do you got back there?”</p><p>Grinning, Thumper bends beneath the counter once more, grunting for a moment before there’s a clatter of metal and plastic. Was that an avalanche? Before I can ask, his head pops over the counter and he says, “Full disclosure; I hate these!”</p><p>This is going to be good.</p><p>Standing up straight, Thumper drops a pair of tall, quilted, sequined, neon green cowboy boots on the countertop, and they physically hurt to look at.</p><p>“Please hide them,” I ask, turning my face away.</p><p>“I feel the same. I’d burn them, but they have a right to exist,” he agrees softly.</p><p>There’s another clatter, and when I turn back I find the boots gone. “So how much for everything, boots included?”</p><p>“$35. Will that be cash or card?”</p><p>“Card,” I reply quickly. Cash is so dirty. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I slip my debit card from inside the case. “Thanks for your help with the boots. They’re really cool.”</p><p>“Yeah. I’m pretty fond of them, too. Sad to see them go; happy to know they’ll be appreciated.” He slides my card through a slot on the register before handing it back with a receipt. “Here you go. Also, uh…” Thumper glances around me, no doubt at Lea, before looking back to meet my eyes.</p><p>Eyes. <em>No</em>. Just gotta <em>look at his hair</em>.</p><p>“Could I, uh… give you my number?”</p><p>Huh? “For what?”</p><p>“Would you, uh…” He clears his throat. “I was wondering if I could ask you out. If that’s okay. If you’re… If you’re into people like me.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>He’s asking me out. Romantically. And… possibly bracing himself for transphobia? Oh shit. Poor dude. That’s like four kinds of fucked up. “Sorry, I’m not into guys,” I reply as gently as I can. Soft voice, <em>soft voice</em>. “Thanks, though. Good luck.”</p><p>For a second he seems confused, and then he just <em>smiles</em>. “Yeah, okay,” he says, entirely too cheery for someone who just got rejected. “Have a great day, and I love your jacket by the way.”</p><p>Oh, right, this is a place where someone would actually compliment it. For a moment I blank, glancing down at what I’m wearing in confusion. It’s just normal to me, but what must he see? I’m tall, have blue hair, a leather jacket covered in patches, and am accompanied by a very tall, very excitable redhead.</p><p>Yeah, a younger version of myself would go a little nuts, too.</p><p>“Thanks,” I remember to say a beat later.</p><p>Maybe I take too long to reply, but Thumper doesn’t react like I do. He’s already folded everything and pushes the pile across the counter at me, smiling big. “Have a great day!”</p><p>“You, too.” Taking hold of the clothes, I turn to face Lea, nodding toward the door. “Ready to go?”</p><p>“Very sadly, yes,” he replies dryly. Lifting a hand in farewell, he says, “Bye, Thumper,” before walking out in two quick steps.</p><p>When we get out to the car, Lea places the clothes delicately in the back seat before tossing his battered sneakers haphazardly onto the floor. He crawls into his car with a grin on his face, turning it on me as I settle into my seat. “Thank you for today. Really. I owe you a lot.”</p><p>“People should help each other out,” I remind him, buckling in and slouching into the curve of the car seat.</p><p>“We should, be we don’t. Life is too busy to help someone else.”</p><p>“Well, my life isn’t. Just accept that my help comes from a position of privilege and get over it. Besides, what would the band do if your bass got trashed from the temperature changes of being outside? Look at it that way and save your guilt.”</p><p>“You’re a good friend,” he says, and it’s that soft voice again. “Just let me know when you need help and I’ll be there, okay? No questions.”</p><p>Is he being serious right now? “Okay,” I say, mainly ‘cause I might as well accept for his sake.</p><p>But maybe it isn’t just for his sake. Maybe I feel confused by this whole situation. Maybe I feel guilty because this is helping me, too, and that everything’s been phrased like I’m doing him a favor until this point, and accepting this basic reality will air out to dry just how messed up I am right now. It will change the narrative of our arrangement and place a spotlight over just how fucked everything is for me right now.</p><p>But maybe he knows that, and this is his way of telling me that he sees me without dragging out my anxiety for the both of us to enjoy.</p><p>While I could be reading too far into things, I appreciate him all the same.</p><p>It doesn’t matter that I have no intention of taking the offer.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We’re halfway back to Radiant when Lea’s phone rings. “Can you put that on speaker for me?” he asks after I read off the caller ID — Unknown. As soon as I have the phone held between us he says, “Flynn speaking.”</p><p>“<em>Hello Mr. Flynn. I’m calling on behalf of Walt Apartments. Is now a good time?</em>”</p><p>“As good as ever. I’m driving, but a friend is holding my phone. You’re on speaker.”</p><p>“<em>That’s good. I just wanted to contact you to let you know that we’ve gotten the paperwork ready for you to sign for your apartment. Whenever you can come by for the required signatures and produce first and last month’s rent, as well as the security deposit, we’ll be able to get you your keys and have you move in as early as the next business day.</em>”</p><p>“So like… if I dropped by today I’d have the apartment by tomorrow?”</p><p>“<em>That is correct</em>.”</p><p>“You’re not joking, right?” Lea asks.</p><p>“<em>I am not joking, Mr. Flynn,</em>” is the smooth reply.</p><p>Wow, that was fast. Didn’t it take weeks to get an apartment? Is this place shady or something?</p><p>“Thank you,” Lea says, voice cracking like a teenager for a sobering moment. “I’ll be there in about an hour. Maybe less, if I can.”</p><p>“<em>We’ll see you soon, then</em>.”</p><p>They say their pleasantries, then I tap the screen to hang up. “You okay, champ?” I ask when his face turns a brilliant shade of red.</p><p>“Can’t cry. Not yet. Driving. I’m getting an <em>apartment</em>,” he says, growing more and more manic as he speaks, words slurring and rising to a quiet scream. Then, mouth dropping open, he lets out something like an excited shout. It sounds mixed and garbled and not right.</p><p>“What the hell was that?”</p><p>“I’m trying to imitate that pterodactyl screech that Xion does. I realized halfway through that it would hurt your ears so I decided not to. But then half the sound was already out even as I was going, ‘abort, abort!’ You know, like a weirdo.”</p><p>I can only agree with a laugh.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As soon as we get into town, Lea swings by the bank to get the money for his rent and deposit. “Do you want me to drop you off first?” he asks after crawling back into the car.</p><p>“You’re sleeping on my couch. No need to make two trips,” I point out. “Don’t worry; I’ll sit in the car like a good girl.”</p><p>“Ha,” he laughs like it’s the height of comedy in the most sarcastic way. “You sure you’ll be okay? It’s getting really hot today, and the A/C likes to crap out when this piece of crap is stationary. I don’t want you to get heat exhaustion.”</p><p>Letting my head fall back against the seat, I look sidelong over at him. “Between the two of us, which is the human ice cube?” I ask.</p><p>“You are.”</p><p>“And which of us is likely to enjoy a nice half hour in a 110 degree sedan?”</p><p>He throws his hands up as high as the car will let him at this, shaking his head in defeat. “Fine, I’ll leave you in the car,” he snorts, pulling out of the bank parking lot.</p><p>We arrive at the apartment complex a few minutes later, settling into one of the many open parking spots out front of the office.</p><p>“I won’t be too long,” Lea says, then hops out and walks into the building.</p><p>And again, I wait.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>I’ve gotten lost.</p><p>Political thoughts. A rant in the mirror about basic decency to the audience of me. Waiting for Lea, I get lost in myself. In my head I reenact conversations I regret, and then my phone buzzes in my lap. Gripping the case firmly, I turn it to see the screen and freeze.</p><p>
  <strong>Paine Yeo Calling</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Accept | Reject</strong>
</p><p>Rejecting the call, my head begins to spiral a bit. Why are they calling? Will they leave a message? I navigate to where I’ve muted their texts. Much to my horror I stare at days and days — weeks? — of messages.</p><p>I close the texting app, and it hits me like a brick. First my face, burning and itching as tears prickle in my eyes. Then my throat, closing; aching. My stomach churns. My legs pinch like they’re fatigued.</p><p>Would it have been better if we’d never met? That they had never made me feel like I had met “the one?” I always had my doubts about Paine. How young they were. How supportive they were. How dismissive they could be. How they made me feel like I would never again meet someone who would be willing to stay for all my quirks and hangups.</p><p>And now I’m alone, again. How long will I be alone? How much of this is my fault? Do I need to change? Do I need to reel myself back and be more like other people?</p><p>I’m scared.</p><p>I don’t want this. I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t-</p><p>The door on the driver’s side clicks out and my head slams into the roof of the car as I leap halfway out of my seat. It aches, but it’s a dull pain compared to the churning of my stomach. Adrenaline pumping, I turn and fight to breathe like I haven’t just had the shit scared out of me as the vehicle begins its transformation into a clown car.</p><p>My skin crawls beneath a fine layer of sweat as Lea folds into his seat.</p><p>“I get the keys tomorrow,” he says, pulling the seatbelt across his chest.</p><p>The click of the buckle is loud. Sharp. It hurts my ears. My head aches with it. I need everything to be <em>quiet</em>.</p><p>I need a drink. “Do you want to celebrate?” I ask quickly. “We can hang out in my room, play some music, and grab a bunch of snacks. Charge up for the move-in tomorrow.”</p><p>Lea laughs at this, cheeks full in a wide grin. “You’d help me move in?”</p><p>“Yeah. I’ve got the whole day free. So, party tonight? You and me?”</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The moment we get back I warn Mom we might be loud before hopping in the shower. The water feels like needles on my skin, beating inside me, and it <em>hurts</em>. It hurts and it cuts without cutting, and I just want… I don’t want to feel like this.</p><p>So I slide my fingers between my legs and push inside. Maybe an orgasm will help, or maybe it won’t. As I run my middle finger over the rougher texture of my G-spot, palm crushing against my clit, my head falls against the shower wall as I let out a relieved breath. How long has it been since I’ve allowed myself to seek pleasure?</p><p>My free hand takes hold of a support handle by the unused soap holder as I push my hips against the wall, leveraging it against my hand. The water is further away like this, barely hitting the edge of one thigh as I rock onto one finger.</p><p>It would be easier in bed.</p><p>It would feel better with someone else inside me. Fingers. A mouth.</p><p>But Lea’s in there, now.</p><p>Shit. Shit, that’s a nice angle. I push my hips more forcefully against the wall. The joints of my hand complain, fingers cramping from the unnatural angle, but a hot, tingling sensation races from my hips and up my chest.</p><p>Yes. <em>Yes</em>. It’s almost too much, and it is. Against my will, my hips pull away from the wall. No. <em>No</em>. Keep pushing. I need it. I want it. I <em>crave</em> it. I want to draw out the orgasm until I can’t think, but instead my body shies away, demanding distance from overstimulation.</p><p>Traitor.</p><p>When I finally step out of the shower the water has run cold. From there I wipe myself down and pull on a T-shirt and shorts, tugging at where I’ve cut the collar out of the shirt to keep it away from my throat.</p><p>Lea is playing on his phone when I get back to the room, sitting on my bed with his back against the wall.</p><p>“Maybe we should get takeout instead of snacks,” I suggest, hopping onto the bed and crawling up to the headboard. Snatching my phone from the bedside table, I open up the food delivery app. “I kind of want tacos.”</p><p>“I could go for tacos,” he says.</p><p>Wait, we were going to celebrate. Reaching beneath my bed, I feel around for the bottle of vodka I keep stashed underneath. As I pull it out, his expression twists.</p><p>“Hey, uh… That’s kind of a weird place to keep your hard alcohol.”</p><p>“Sleeping pills give me sleep paralysis, but a shot of Vodka helps me sleep,” I reply easily, setting it on the bedside table.</p><p>“Cool,” he says, voice sounding distant. Then he leans back against the wall. He breathes real slow; in and out. Peaceful.</p><p>“You look like you’ve already had a drink,” I joke.</p><p>Lea shakes his head. “I couldn’t have one even if I wanted. Painkillers.”</p><p>Oh, right.</p><p>“I think I mistimed my last does.”</p><p>Leaning away from the headboard, anxiety jolts through my stomach. “What? You aren’t high, are you?”</p><p>A laugh. A sigh. A soft, “Just a bit,” that makes me nervous. One large hand flops onto his cast, tracing patterns by his thumb. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be this relaxed. Life is… It’s going good. For the first time since I was seventeen I’ll have consistent housing that won’t depend on someone else.”</p><p>He’s nearly forty. “It’s a good feeling, huh?”</p><p>“The best.” It’s a whisper at most. Maybe a prayer. But as Lea slides down the wall a bit, hand still drawing patterns over his cast, he seems different. Softer. After so long maybe I’ve gotten too used to the Try Hard version of Lea. Do I really know him? Or do I just know the man he’s let me see?</p><p>That’s not even a question. Of course I don’t know him. If I did, all of this wouldn’t have been so out of left field.</p><p>Am I a shitty friend?</p><p>Grabbing my phone again, I stare at the screen and say maybe a bit too loudly, “Tacos?”</p><p>“Tacos,” Lea agrees.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Maybe I drank too much. I’ve been fading in and out all night. Maybe it’s the vodka. Maybe it’s the stress. But at one point Lea and I are cuddled up against the headboard with his right hand carding through my hair as he tells me about his friend Roxas.</p><p>“He’s mostly deaf in one ear, with a lot of loss in he other,, and we’ve been learning sign language with him on and off for a few years. He doesn't really need it, but I’ve used it at these luncheons he brings me and Xion to occasionally. He’s been talking about going to law school after he finishes his degree, and we’re a little worried that he won’t come back if that happens. He’s got a head that could take him places, you know?”</p><p>“You have a high IQ too,” I point out dryly. “You met him at a MENSA meeting, right? You’re plenty smart.”</p><p>“Yeah, but what use is having a good head if you aren’t healthy or stable enough to use it? You are only as good as your resources.”</p><p>Huh. That’s a really good point. You are only as good as your resources. That makes a lot of sense. What’s the point of money without access to food? What use are connections without anything to feed into them? What use is a 198 point IQ if you’re homeless?</p><p>“I see I’ve lost you,” Lea laughs.</p><p>“I got stuck on the resource thing,” I admit. I don’t sound as engaged as I could. “Sorry. Keep going. What did I miss?”</p><p>“You really <em>did</em> zone out. I haven’t said anything since the resource thing.”</p><p>Oops. “Sorry.”</p><p>He waves me off, unbroken arm sliding around my waist as he huffs a sigh. Cuddling up into my back, he is a wall of comfortable heat against my chilled body. “You’re cool. I know you have issues focusing. Besides, IQ doesn’t really mean anything, anyways. Usually you’d point that out — it’s just a measurement to how fast you can find specific answers to specific questions. But…”</p><p>As he pauses, I glance back at him curiously, waiting for him to finish.</p><p>Lea grins, teeth yellowed from years of cigarettes and coffee, breath deceptively fresh. Leaning towards me, he presses his lips — chapped, warm, dry — to the curve of my forehead. He pulls away after a moment. His eyes are close and impossible to avoid. They’re so green. So bright. Sharp. They crinkle at the edges as he grins at me again. “You’re drunk, Aqua Willa Toyoguchi.”</p><p>He says my full name like we’re in one of Mom’s old movies. His arm slips around my waist, mattress shifting beneath us as he wiggles into place. As he settles back against me I find myself entertaining the thought. What <em>if</em> we were in a movie? There’d be soft music in the background; a piano, or maybe a cello. Someone would be singing. It would be a feminine voice with a lower tone.</p><p>If this were a movie he would embrace me tighter, and I would look into his eyes of my own volition. My room would be spotless, the sheets would be silk, and I’d probably be in a lacy nightie.</p><p>But there’s no room in the movies for plaid pajamas that don’t sag “casually” over one shoulder. There’s no space for messy bedrooms or stained cotton sheets. There’s certainly no space for an Autistic main character; especially one that doesn’t “look Autistic.”</p><p>Bold of me to assume I would be the main character. No one wants to watch a movie about me.</p><p>But I do. Or maybe I would like my life to be a little bit more like a movie. Predictable. Satisfying. I’ve got no way of knowing if I’m going to have a happy ending, and it’d be nice to have that reassurance.</p><p>If this were a movie Lea would kiss me. If this were a movie he would take me in his arms and we would take care of each other. The plot would get a little messy, but it would straighten out after a bit… and we could be happy.</p><p>But this isn’t a movie. Lea isn’t going to kiss me. We’re not going to fall together like gravity and walk into the sunset as the credits roll. There is no pretty bow on an easy to follow plotline.</p><p>I’m not in love with Lea. I never will be. But part of me wants to be. I want to be taken care of. I want to be touched. I want to be wanted. I wanted to be loved. I want to be the center of someone’s world whenever I enter a room.</p><p>To that end, Lea would be… convenient.</p><p>I need to stop thinking.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. James Leopold Flynn of the "Shit Happens" Brigade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Much love to Arnaud and Cap for their help keeping me sane during this chapter, as always. And I apologize for nothing.</p><p>See end notes for chapter warning.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Wednesday August 25th</strong>
</p><p>We head over to his new apartment complex first thing in the morning armed with fried egg sandwiches and far too much enthusiasm than is natural for the bitter hour of 7AM on what is essentially my Sunday. He gets his keys. We let ourselves into the apartment. He jumps around a bit. Then, we talk furniture.</p><p>“You need a bed,” I say first.</p><p>“I need a microwave,” he fires back.</p><p>“<em>You need a <strong>bed</strong></em>.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We leave the second hand store with a battered futon, a yellowed microwave, and a large bottle of mattress cleaner folded into the back seat of Lea’s car.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You wanna celebrate tonight?” I ask just as Lea is stepping out of the kitchen for a smoke break. “Just you and me, maybe Xion. Properly this time. I could get some weed. We can make a night of it. It won’t just be me getting drunk as shit on you; promise.” Which I still feel bad about.</p><p>“Maybe. It’ll be pretty late after practice. We’ll see how we feel,” he suggests like a proper a— Fuck, practice. I totally forgot about practice today. Lea snorts, leaning up against the counter and lifting his cast up as an example. “Actually, it probably won’t last that long. You know, now that I think about it.”</p><p>Right. Broken arm. “So is that a yes?”</p><p>He shrugs. “I think Xion’s got a client tonight, but I’m down if you’re buying. I’ve still got my old pipe. We can break that out and have a night of it.”</p><p>Old pipe? “You mean that old Sherlock looking thing we got high with in high school?”</p><p>“<em>You</em> were in high school. <em>I</em> was in college,” he reminds me, voice light. “Scholarship days. Didn’t we get the weed through Leon?”</p><p>I try not to choke on my own mouth. “What? No. Leon was like… No. Leon wouldn’t have known a drug dealer if they… He would have thought they were a cop. Anyone who tried to sell him weed would probably have <em>been</em> a cop. Your girlfriend brought it.”</p><p>“My girlfriend?”</p><p>“Yeah. Blonde. Big rack. Called me a dyke a week later so you broke up with her for being a homophobic cunt. Any of this ringing any bells?”</p><p>Lea’s expression is blank as I say this, and his mouth drops open for a moment before answering with a dry, “It doesn’t sound like a relationship I’d want to remember.”</p><p>Fair.</p><p>Pushing himself back off the counter, Lea nods toward the back door. “I’m gonna get that smoke break. Practice isn’t for another few hours. Wanna help me deep clean the bedroom before that?”</p><p>I do not. “Sure,” I say, waving him off.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When we get to practice, Lea doesn’t mention the apartment hunt. He doesn’t show off his new boots or mention anything we did this week. He plays off of everyone’s jokes. Plays a little bass around the cast. Terra asks how he’s doing and Lea answers with a dodge; something I wouldn’t have known to look for before all of this; “Doc says it’s healing up real nice. Clean break; no complications. It’s all covered by the state insurance.”</p><p>There’s no mention of losing his job. Breaking up with his girlfriend. Becoming homeless. His facade is perfect. Of course I didn’t have a clue. Lea’s smarter than all of us, but I never thought he’d be so good at lying. At acting. That he’d want to lie to us. How much do I really know, even now?</p><p>Things end early, like Lea thought they would, and then the two of us climb into his car. As he crams himself behind the steering wheel, there’s a twisting in my gut. I want attention, again. I want eyes and I want hands and I want to be wanted and it eats at the lining of my stomach until it’s hard to move.</p><p>“If we really are gonna get high as shit tonight, let’s make some snacks first,” Lea says.</p><p>“That sounds good,” I reply without thinking. It would be nice to fill the gap inside me with something, but honestly the thought of eating right now is nauseating. “Grilled cheese?” I suggest, though I’m not really in the mood for anything.</p><p>He snorts. “Grilled cheese. What’s with you and your mom? <em>Grilled cheese</em>.”</p><p>“Bread and cheese. Can’t go wrong,” I shoot back. Maybe if I build it up enough I can trick myself into eating. “It’s good shit.” Maybe I can eat it once I’m high. Weed always makes me hungry.</p><p>“Look, I don’t want to overstep, especially after all this help, but shouldn’t you be home right now?”</p><p>What? “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Alte.” His voice is low when he says her name, carrying surprisingly well over the roar of the engine. “When your dad was sick-”</p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” I warn him sharply as anxiety curls sharp and sour up into my throat.</p><p>He’s quiet for a moment before continuing, voice soft. “You’re doing it again. Making plans. Avoiding her like you did after everything happened with him.”</p><p>“Don’t talk about him,” I snap as the nausea reaches my head, and it aches. My head aches. My chest aches. Everything just… aches.</p><p>“Okay,” he says. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Leaning up against the door, I watch the trees and town pass us by.</p><p>“Should I take you back to Terra’s? I don’t know if you’ll be comfortable at mine,” Lea says, voice still tentative. He hesitates before every word, like he expects me to lash out.</p><p>Sinking into my seat, I shake my head. “No. Let’s just go to your place.”</p><p>“Okay,” he says and keeps driving.</p><p>He’s right, though. I know he’s probably right. There’s a good chance I’m avoiding Mom. But I don’t… I can’t handle being there right now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. It’s probably unfair to her. It’s <em>definitely</em> unfair to her.</p><p>But we don’t always have to be fair.</p><p>Lea’s pipe is straight out of a Sherlock film. One of the old ones where they say things like “indubitably” and “by Jove.” Mom would always mock those. She wasn’t that fond of them, and seemed to take offense to the entire premise behind it, that a man could walk into any situation and save everyone with just a glance. It turned men who liked the series into, as she put it, “Insufferable poppycocks with a God complex.”</p><p>Lea’s pipe, though, is a little worse for wear, and tastes like soap when I put it in my mouth. I grimace, bringing it to the kitchen with the intent of rinsing it off.</p><p>Lea’s hand lands on mine when I go to rinse it. “Hey, hey, not directly. Damp paper towel. You might get water in the weed.”</p><p>Oh. Right. Of course. “Sorry, got distracted.” The pipe is already loaded and lit. The last thing we need is to flush the bowl.</p><p>He snorts as he brings his hand away. “You’re not even high yet. Sure you’re good for this?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” I lie. Grabbing a paper towel from the roll abandoned on the counter after cleaning, I run it under the tap and wipe the mouthpiece down. It doesn’t taste as strongly of soap this time, but I wipe it down two more times to be sure before popping it in my mouth and inhaling as deep as I dare.</p><p>It tastes like ass and a poorly run barbecue but I won’t care in twenty minutes. Lea takes it back from me, inhaling deep with all the blind courage of a twenty-year-old stoner. Is it not as gross to him? Handing me back the pipe, he rolls up his sleeves.</p><p>“I’m gonna get started on those grilled cheese before the weed hits. You wanna put on some music?” he asks, stepping around me to approach the sink.</p><p>“What are you in the mood for?” I ask. Please, not Rancid.</p><p>He hums, working his hands into a lather. It’s almost like he’s making a show of washing his hands, scratching his palms to get under the nails and scrubbing halfway up to his elbows. Does he always wash his hands like this? “I’m feeling like some Mountain Goats. How about you?”</p><p>“Like… the sound of mountain goats? ASMR or something?” Please don’t actually want to listen to ASMR of a flock of goats or something. Is it even a flock? Hoard? Murder? They’re not crows, but I feel like a bunch of goats should be called a murder.</p><p>“What? No. The band. The Mountain Goats. You’ve definitely heard their stuff. You probably just don’t know the name of the band.”</p><p>Cool. Not that there’s anything wrong with goats or ASMR farm sounds. It’s just not what I think about when I think of “music to get high to.” Though, to be fair, that bar will get a lot lower once I’m actually high.</p><p>Herd. It’s a herd of goats.</p><p>Popping “The Mountain Goats” into a search bar on my phone, I tap on the first youtube link and open it with an ad blocking web app. As the first chords of piano fall out of my phone Lea grins over at me.</p><p>“Shit, I love this one,” he says, then turns back to buttering the bread as he sings along under his breath.</p><p>The vocals are crisp, clear, and surprisingly easy to understand. “Is this an older band?”</p><p>“It’s just one guy, technically, but he’s been popping albums out since we were kids. So yeah, I guess. Xion really likes it.”</p><p>“Of course she does,” I tease.</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means the only times you really talk about what music you listen to, it’s just Rancid. I’m starting to wonder if it’s ‘cause we’re in a punk band and you want to stay on brand.”</p><p>Lea shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t actually listen to a lot of music on my own.”</p><p>Huh? “You don’t?”</p><p>“Well yeah. I originally joined the band to spend more time with Xion. She was always hanging off of Terra back then, remember?”</p><p>Xion.</p><p>Of <em>course</em> it’s because of Xion. Even now he’s probably thinking about her. We’re listening to <em>her</em> music. He’s hanging out with a member of the band he joined for <em>her</em>. He’s in love with <em>her</em>.</p><p>He makes a grab for the pipe, taking another deep hit after I hand it over, and it’s like he’s only looking at her even now. We’re alone. We’re getting high together. I know more about his life than she does. I helped him break a streak of homlessness. So why doesn’t it feel like he’s looking at me?</p><p>It hits like a brick, landing in my stomach and dragging me down, my anxiety. Again.</p><p>Look at me. I’m right here. What will it take to make someone look at me? I’m <em>fucking</em> invisible.</p><p>“You okay?” Lea turns to face me, mouth lax and one eyebrow arched. His facial tattoos look higher than usual, though that could be because he caked makeup over them when we went to get the apartment keys. I have to get used to them again. He leans forward, waving a hand in front of my face. “Ground control to Major Tom.”</p><p>Instead of answering I grab the pipe out of his hand and walk into the living room. Maybe that was childish. But who the fuck cares right now?</p><p>This smells horrible.</p><p>Plopping myself down by the living room window, I crack it open and lean out, peering out into the street as I take a long hit from the pipe. As I look out over the neighborhood something is… off. It’s dark, and you can almost see the stars, here. That’s weird. I can barely see them where I live; the street lamps are too… bright.</p><p>The street lamps aren’t lit.</p><p>There are lights around the apartment, but the street in the distance is dark. There’s an eerie feeling that builds in my stomach, and as it builds a pair of glittering yellow eyes appear in the shadows of the street, its menacing silhouette lit only by the moon.</p><p>Heartless.</p><p>I reel back and close the window.</p><p>“No wonder this place was so easy to get,” I say to myself.</p><p>By the time I’ve finished the contents of the pipe and started to load it again, Lea comes into the living room and plops on the floor next to me with two plates of grilled cheese. My phone is under his arm, and when he hands it back The Gorillaz are playing, not The Mountain Goats.</p><p>“I’ll stop asking how you’re doing,” he promises quietly.</p><p>I don’t reply.</p><p>He loads the pipe and lights it again while I’m taking the first bite of the sandwich, and then passes it to me.</p><p>Pushing the food into my cheeks, I give him a look that I hope he translates as, “What the fuck, man? My mouth is full.”</p><p>He appears to understand, drawing it back and taking another long breath from it. He holds it for longer than usual, then lets it out before taking another hit. Then another. It’s somewhere around his fifth or sixth hit when he finally goes to hand it to me again. Which is fair, considering how much I got from the first load.</p><p>I take one last hit before I realize it could be a bad idea. It’s been a long time since I’ve partook. A long time where I’ve had little more than one or two edibles at once. Small ones.</p><p>Halfway through my grilled cheese, the weed hits. The bread hurts my gums, the cheese tastes like God, and the floor is fucking <em>sandpaper</em>. How do people live with this? I want to pull off my jacket and sit on it, but then I’ll be <em>cold</em>.</p><p>“We can move this party to the futon if you hate it so much,” he says, laughing at me.</p><p>Did I say that out loud?</p><p>“Your face is hilarious.”</p><p>Dick. “Once we finish the sandwiches, we can move to the futon,” I agree, tugging at the bottoms of my jeans to cover my ankles better. This carpet is the worst. Rough, short, tightly packed, and that gray-white-brown you expect from mobile homes with carpeted kitchens. It digs into my skin the way that’s going to leave painful imprints for hours. The carpet rash from this shit could draw serious blood.</p><p>Once the dishes are in the sink, we head upstairs. The townhome apartment’s top story consists of a single bedroom and a bathroom that smells faintly of cigarettes. Possibly Lea’s doing. Possibly not. Lea plops down on the futon, patting the spot beside him with a laugh. “C’mon. The water’s fine.”</p><p>The weed must have hit him.</p><p>Taking a seat on what passes for his bed, I plop back against it with a sigh. My body aches. Is it a physical exhaustion? Mental? My bones ache.</p><p>“I’m glad you broke up with Paine.” It’s a little out of nowhere, but the words make my throat turn sour. “I only saw you together those two times, but it felt kind of like… It was like you kept stopping yourself from being yourself, and they were judging you for everything. Literally everything. Like, you would look at Xion just a second too long and you would get so paranoid that Paine was going to overreact. And even if they didn’t do anything to make you feel that way, that’s how you were reacting. I’m glad you two split.”</p><p>I take a breath. It’s a flood. It’s not a flood. It’s an avalanche. It’s not. It’s just… It’s too much.</p><p>The futon shifts. Lea must be moving.</p><p>“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, even though I know it’s unfair.</p><p>“Would anything different have happened? I had shit going on, and <em>you</em> were having an episode when you left.” He’s not wrong.</p><p>I wanted things to work out so bad. Would I have even listened? Or would I have pushed Lea away? I don’t know. Past me was desperate. Current me is desperate. Desperation makes people do some pretty stupid shit.</p><p>Lea is warm. His hands are rough and big and so, so hot against my skin as he cups my face. “You’re cold again,” he says like it isn’t a given. Like it’s something that can be fixed.</p><p>Like it doesn’t make desire warm my hips and chest, legs tingling distantly.</p><p>I want him to touch me.</p><p>If this were a movie, he would be touching me. If this were a movie… But it isn’t. This isn’t a movie. His face is close. His hands are warm. His eyes are pointed straight at me. There are no outside distractions, no conversations, no music, no <em>Xion</em>.</p><p>Just us.</p><p>My chest lurches as I reach forward, dragging his face down to mine and crushing our lips together, feeling him respond as a whole-body experience. His hands find my hair, cast scraping my arm as he lurches forward, knees settling on either sides of my thighs. His kilt fans out over my legs, sending a thrill up between my hips. For a moment, the gap inside me fills.</p><p>Jerking away, he stares down at me blearily, pupils blown and chapped lips gaped before saying, “I thought you weren’t into guys.”</p><p>I don’t like them, but I don’t… I’m not entirely <em>indifferent</em>. How do I explain that? Can I explain that? “Is that the only problem right now?” I ask, because it kind of hurts.</p><p>Lea lunges forward, lips slipping against my throat with no other warning. It should feel gross. His tongue slides up the side of my neck, leaving a trail of saliva that cools in his wake. There’s no sharp sting of perfume in my nose; no powdery aftertaste of foundation when he kisses me, mouth closed firmly. Right hand sliding out of my hair, it slides down my neck and over my collarbone until he finds the dip of my waist.</p><p>Reaching down, I grab his hand and guide it under my shirt, and his touch is <em>electric</em>. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s my low point. I just want his hands warming me.</p><p>“You sure about this?” he asks as his fingers drag over the edges of my bra.</p><p>No. “Yes,” I lie.</p><p>His arm slides beneath me, and I’m lifted clean off the bed as he turns, pulling me onto his lap before guiding my jacket off my shoulders.</p><p>I let it slip to the floor, then reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it up and off my head in one smooth move. As soon as it’s off I expect Lea to go for my breasts. I expect him to kiss them or something similar.</p><p>Instead he pulls back just enough to peel off his shirt. It catches for a moment on the cast, but then it’s on the floor. He’s all pale skin, long limbs, and freckles. There’s a trail of thin hair leading down into his kilt, as bright red as the mess on his head. There’s a surprising amount of trim muscles clinging to his right arm and along his chest. He moves with a grace I’ve never associated him with, non-dominant hand shockingly agile. Left arm coming back around me, he brings me flush to his chest, lips dragging along the shell of my ear as his right hand slips smoothly up my back.</p><p>My bra comes loose a moment later with no warning. “You did that well,” I gasp softly in surprise.</p><p>“I do it all well.”</p><p>“Cocky bastard,” I tease.</p><p>“Practiced, though I’m definitely a little <em>cocky</em>,” he breathes against my ear. It shouldn’t be sexy.</p><p>It is.</p><p>Where’s the greasy, unsexy, awkward mess I’ve spent so many band practices with? Where’s the man with the cheesy one-liners and awkward dirty jokes?</p><p>“Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you,” he whispers, breath washing over my neck to draw goosebumps all along my chest.</p><p>Oh.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>My thighs clench at the words, and I feel myself <em>ache</em> between them. My arms slide around him, fingers curling into his hair. What do I want? I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone with his <em>equipment</em>. The last time had been a rather basic in-and-out, but Lea…</p><p>Lea’s hand draws down my back, nails dragging dully beside my spine in a way that thrills. My bra sags between our otherwise bare chests, my breasts untouched. He has yet to grab me anywhere <em>intimate</em>, even as his lips slide over the curve of my ear.</p><p>I might have taken too long, because he chuckles against me, chest growing just a touch warmer with the noise. “If you think any harder I won’t have to step outside to have a smoke.”</p><p>That fucker. “Why don’t you put that smart mouth of yours to better use?” I snap back. It’s a line from a few movies. It’s a dodge. I don’t know what I want. I have almost no experience with- oh shit.</p><p>Lea pulls away, a toothy grin in place as he whispers, “As the lady wishes.”</p><p>Lady? I’m no lady. I go to argue, but then my back is flush to the futon as the world spins. My bra is gone. My pants are gone. My <em>panties</em> are gone, and as Lea’s head falls between my thighs I do my utmost to… God.</p><p>His <em>tongue</em>.</p><p>It’s all I can do to slide a hand in his hair, rutting desperately against his face as his tongue drags up my clit and a finger slides up and down the folds of my vulva. He spreads the moisture around, occasionally dipping further in before he curves it and-</p><p>My back arches painfully against the futon. It’s a struggle to breathe, but as my vision fills with spots I try to focus on the in and out of oxygen as a tongue flicks up my clit and one solitary finger drags against my g-spot, forcing the heat up and through my body. There’s no awkward fumbling to push two or three fingers inside. No rush to “open me up”; only a single minded approach to drag me forcefully to the edge of orgasm and <em>keep me there</em>.</p><p>And he certainly does <em>that</em>.</p><p>Time becomes an even more distant concept than usual as he holds me hostage at the pinnacle of orgasm. There is no teasing or clumsy fumbling; just the firm hands and lips of a man who knows <em>exactly</em> what he’s doing.</p><p>I’m gasping for air when he pulls away, mouth slick and fingers falling away from me to fumble for his kilt. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he collapses back-first onto the futon with his inhaler in hand. He takes a needy breath from it, eyes fluttering shut as the steroids hit his lungs.</p><p>Fabric bulges over his groin as he lays back, betraying what has got to be a <em>very</em> eager hardon.</p><p>Reaching for the edge of the kilt, I push it slowly up his legs. I look to Lea, searching for a sign that he doesn’t want this.</p><p>Green eyes fix on me, firm.</p><p>My hand slips up, finding his— Holy <em>shit</em>.</p><p>Lea says nothing as my hand burrows into his boxers, taking hold of his dick. My hand barely fits around the base, and when I finally dig him out entirely the fat head pops out from beneath the kilt. There’s a length and a girth to him that I never considered, and two piercings through the sex itself. A Prince Albert, if I remember the term correctly. A double.</p><p>“Curious?” he asks.</p><p>I have no idea if he’s teasing anymore. My skin is alight, I’m the center of his world, and everything feels so light. “Yes,” is my earnest answer. Then, swinging one leg over his hips, I guide the length of him between my thighs. The kilt is soft against my skin; a nice change from scratchy denim and cold silky skirts of partners past.</p><p>He laughs when the head of his dick presses flush to me, too wide to enter. “You won’t get me in like that.”</p><p>“Then what do you recommend?”</p><p>That grin is back, the toothy one, and then he sits up and flips us, inhaler forgotten against the sheets as he pushes me back-first into the futon. Cast guiding my legs apart, propping them against the sides of his chest, his right hand shifts lower. He takes his dick in hand, pushing it firmly against me as he whispers, “The <em>things</em> I’ve wanted to do to you- You have no idea.”</p><p>His eyes are so <em>bright </em>as they fix on me. They’re intent and intense and as my nerves sing at the feeling of resistance, and the hole that’s been gaping in my stomach seems to fill a bit as he angles my hips up to push shallowly inside. Hand moving from his shaft to my clit, he says, “If you have to scream, warn me first.” He takes a moment to flip the front of his kilt over his leg before leaning down until our chests are flush. Then he moves.</p><p>The heat is back. It’s all consuming. It’s <em>too much</em>. His lips leave tingling kisses up my throat and ear as his hand moves against my clit with a practiced fervor that steals my breath. As he pushes gently into me, rocking inside, I can <em>feel</em> his piercings as they drag against the oversensitive skin of my vulva, leaving a trail of <em>heat</em> even as he stretches me. He’s too big, it hurts-</p><p>Then the head pops inside, and it doesn’t, and I’m so <em>full</em>.</p><p>My mouth is hanging open. When I finally think to close it, Lea fixes me with another toothy grin.</p><p>He pushes further inside, and perhaps it’s the weed but my body <em>opens</em> for him. When he stops I stare at the kilt laying over our stomachs as he pulls back for a long breath. Reaching for it, I curiously push it up, enjoying the texture of the fabric and the pulse of him inside me. Once it’s up I see for the first time the inches of unsheathed cock between us where he will not fit any further, bottoming out inside me. “You’re not even all the way in,” I say dumbly.</p><p>A hum. A shift. Lea pulls out a bit, then says firmly, “Not everyone can take eleven inches,” before snapping his hips forward. And it feels <em>good</em>.</p><p>At first it’s slow; a steady beat in tune with a calm heartbeat. But as I arch into him, breathless as the fingers of his right hand grow forceful against my clit, he picks up the pace like a professional. That thought should bother me. A few hours ago it did. But as the minutes pass I allow my head to fall back against the futon as he pistons into me like a machine, perfectly in time to a muted song, hard and thick and long and perfect inside me, kilt brushing my stomach and thighs where it’s fanned out around us, bringing me to a hot and sweaty peak that makes my eyes clench shut against my will and my hands slide up the broad expanse of his back as he curls over my body, fucking me into submission until I am limp and tired and squirming beneath him, unable to think or process the events of the day as he once more brings me to an edge I cannot describe.</p><p>A large hand finds my breast, hot and wide and sweaty, squeezing it gently before falling back to my clit.</p><p>There is nothing but his hand for a long while.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>The next morning, Thursday August 26th</strong>
</p><p>The world is gray.</p><p>I think there are song lyrics like that. A song I know, but can’t remember right now. If Leon got a hold of that line he’d probably write something like, “The world is gray and I’m alone; won’t somebody take me home.” Or maybe he wouldn’t. But right now the world is gray and I’m in Lea’s bed. My mouth is dry. I’m covered in blankets. Lea isn’t here. There’s an emptiness between my thighs that aches.</p><p>There’s a light on in the hall.</p><p>Pulling on my panties and shirt, I head out of the room and down the stairs to the main floor. I find him in the kitchen staring into a pan of scrambled eggs. Before I can greet him he turns off the stove and turns.</p><p>“We didn’t use a condom. I put some Plan B into your bag.” This is not the Lea I know. His expression is blank. Is it intentional?</p><p>I feel… a little scared.</p><p>He turns back to the eggs, scraping them onto a plate. “Do you regret last night?”</p><p>No. “You sound like you do,” I redirect.</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Lea stares down at the eggs on his plate for a long second. One that stretches until I expect it to break.</p><p>When it doesn’t, I speak. “Did you feel good at least?”</p><p>“Of course it felt good, but that doesn’t mean we should have done it. I’m not comfortable with what happened.”</p><p>“Well, for what it’s worth, you were amazing,” I offer, trying to lighten the mood. I expect a laugh. A haughty, “of course,” or maybe a joke. The old Lea that I know.</p><p>“Don’t tell Xion,” he says instead, voice low and sharp.</p><p>It takes me longer than I expect to say, “I won’t. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Yeah, well…” He shrugs, but it doesn’t look casual — it looks stiff, and as awkward as I feel. He sets the pan in the sink, hand settling on the faucet but not moving as he whispers almost so quietly I can’t hear it, “Shit happens.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Content Warning: Non-consensual sex, marijuana use, accidental misuse of prescription opiates.<br/>Note on the Sex: They both consent, and are both eager, however they are both under the influence of substances.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Plan B</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Love as always to Arnaud, Cap, and Sheik for their unending guidance, support, and horrible, enabling influence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Still Thursday August 26th</strong>
</p>
<p>Lea is silent on the ride to work. Silent when I get out. Silent when he drives away from the curb, leaving me before my studio in yesterdays’ clothes and a weed headache.</p>
<p>Not that I can blame him.</p>
<p>How many people would criticize me for what happened last night? How many people would try to revoke my “lesbian” card?</p>
<p>Sometimes I hate labels.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>During my lunch break I pull some pads out of my locker and mentally prepare myself for a rough period when I chase the Plan B with half a bottle of water. I’m halfway home when the cramps hit. Bringing my knees up to my stomach, I wrap one arm around them in an attempt to lessen the pain as the bus vibrations churn my stomach.</p>
<p>It doesn’t work.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>My phone vibrates at 7PM, and when I check to see what it is I find a text from Ventus.</p>
<p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/></em>
  <em>You’ve been AWOL for a few days. Terra and I want to see a movie. Are you game?</em>
</p>
<p>Should I tell him I used Plan B to induce my period early? But what if he asks questions?</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>I’m not feeling great. Sorry.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>16,500 Condoms:<br/>Okay. Let me know if you want me to drop something by for you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Thanks. I will.</em>
</p>
<p>I won’t.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Two Days Later, Saturday August 28th</strong>
</p>
<p>My cramps are still going nuts by the time band practice rolls around. I walk in to find Lea reclined on the couch, cast off, grin on his face. He greets me with a hand that waves lazily in my direction. And maybe things are fine.</p>
<p>“Think you can play today?” Terra asks, taking a seat on his amp. “You don’t seem to need that sling anymore.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Now that all that junk is out of the way, I should be just fine,” Lea replies cooly, reaching for his bass. “Should we get started?”</p>
<p>“Warmups,” Leon reminds him dryly from where he’s already seated behind his drums, sorting through a box of sticks.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on!”</p>
<p>“Warmups,” Terra agrees from his amp, looking far too happy with himself. He stares pointedly at Lea when he says this.</p>
<p>“But-”</p>
<p>“Warmups,” Ventus chimes in.</p>
<p>I turn, finding him nestled deep in the arms of a recliner by the stair doors.</p>
<p>After we’re done stretching, we pause to tease Lea as he forgets himself during a jumping jack and smacks the ceiling with his good arm. After we’re done with the last of our daily exercises, we settle into our places.</p>
<p>We’re three songs in before Terra comments, “You’re all over the place, man.” He looks at Lea as he says it, one hand on his guitar and the other braced against the amp. “You’re improvising a lot, too. Whatever that was, it wasn’t the bass line for Corner Peace.”</p>
<p>Lea breathes a sigh. “Yeah, sorry. Guess my head’s just not in the game.”</p>
<p>“Your head? Is your ex giving you trouble?” Terra asks. Maybe he’s trying to figure out the heart of the matter, or dig into the matter without making it too stressful.</p>
<p>He definitely doesn’t know about Lea losing his job. Getting another one. Becoming homeless. Getting high with me and… Well, he <em>definitely</em> doesn’t know about <em>that</em>.</p>
<p>“Honestly, I think it’s these pain meds,” Lea replies eventually. “There’s still this lingering ache to look after, and the meds make me a little fuzzy.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got to be careful with those. They can be dangerous,” Leon says from behind his drums.</p>
<p>“Would a bass guitar fall under the definition of ‘heavy machinery’ on those warning labels?” Ventus chimes in from the armchair.</p>
<p>I always thought it meant like… a forklift.</p>
<p>Lea clicks his tongue. “No. A bass guitar isn’t a car.”</p>
<p>“You know,” Terra starts, setting his guitar on the floor, “I always assumed that warning was for a forklift. I know it’s for cars, but my knee-jerk reaction is always ‘forklift’. I don’t know why.”</p>
<p>Maybe I should speak up. Make a joke. Let Terra know I think the same thing… but if I speak right now I might throw up. It’s sudden, but intense; an anxiety that drops straight from my throat and thrashes angrily in my stomach when I catch Lea’s eyes and he looks suddenly, sharply away.</p>
<p>So I don’t speak. I don’t comment on the meds warning jokes. I don’t join in when they change topics. I don’t try to get the group back on topic because if I draw any attention to myself then I’ll force Lea to look my way. Or worse; I’ll just have it confirmed that he’s avoiding me.</p>
<p>The guys shoot the shit for a while before coming to the conclusion that practice is over. I nod along as they talk it over, still standing awkwardly by the microphone stand.</p>
<p>Ventus approaches as Lea starts to pack up, and Terra hangs up the cords. “Hey, Aqua.”</p>
<p>“Hey,” I greet, trying to sound something resembling upbeat. I don’t. “Sorry I’ve been AWOL lately.”</p>
<p>“I actually wanted to talk to you about that. My flight is in a few days and I’ve barely gotten to see you these last four weeks.”</p>
<p>“Look, I’m sorry. I-”</p>
<p>“No, no. Let me finish, okay? Just…” He takes a breath. “You tend to just fall off the face of the planet when things get serious. I get that. I just wanted you to know I’d like to stay up to date on what’s going on with your mom, if you’re up to it. I’ll be pushing for some time off around when you tell me, okay? I want to attend the funeral if I can.”</p>
<p>Oh. Right. “Thanks,” I say, because what else do I even… Fuck. I don’t know how to respond.</p>
<p>He nods. It’s a heavy thing on him, hair flying a bit in the stream of the air conditioner. He’s always been so mature about things. Always knows what to say. Unlike the rest of us, he’s a proper adult.</p>
<p>Or maybe I just think that. The grass is always greener and all that. But sometimes it’s <em>actually</em> greener. They’ve got better soil and better seed and better weather to grow. Knowing Ventus, seeing him go from a kid hungry for the world to a climate change researcher… I feel so inadequate.</p>
<p>Walking out of practice last feels heavy and… awkward, for lack of a better word. My limbs feel too long and my chest feels too heavy and I’m just messed up.</p>
<p>Lea and Leon are on the porch smoking when I get out into the front yard, so I walk straight up the dirt path to the sidewalk instead of passing through the garden. I don’t want to risk someone saying hello. I don’t want to be around Lea right now.</p>
<p>I feel as good as rejected.</p>
<p>It’s a short walk home, and then the anxiety festers. Does Lea hate me now? How badly did I mess things up? Can I fix this?</p>
<p>It’s two hours later when I finally text him. I’ve put it off every way I can: a shower, redying my hair, brushing my teeth, changing into pajamas, doing dishes. I stop when I see my room, still boxed in Not Preparation to Not Move Out. I curl under my blankets with a bottle of vodka and my phone, then pull up our message history.</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Hey, do you wanna talk?</em>
</p>
<p>His reply comes sixteen minutes later.</p>
<p>
  <em>Schrodinger’s Redhead:<br/>I can’t talk right now.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>When’s a good time for you?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Schrodinger’s Redhead:<br/>Not Now.</em>
</p>
<p>That’s as good a “fuck off” as I’ll ever get from him.</p>
<p>I don’t feel great.</p>
<p>I don’t… I <em>really</em> don’t feel great.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>My phone buzzes in my hand, and out of habit I select the incoming message.</p>
<p>
  <em>Xion Stoner:<br/>D’you wanna go hiking tomorrow? 4AM?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Aqua Toyoguchi:<br/>Sure.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Sunday August 29th</strong>
</p>
<p>We’re up far too early to be healthy. Xion is in a pair of jean shorts and a low cut V-neck; not hiking clothes by any means, but that’s never stopped her. She’s bright and cheery not necessarily <em>despite</em> the hour, but perhaps <em>in direct spite</em> of how much people usually complain about it. She’s wearing more makeup today, and some clunky jewelry. Honestly, she looks like she’s going clubbing.</p>
<p>I kinda want to drag her into the bushes and show her what I really think about her outfit. Knowing her, she’d let me.</p>
<p>But I don’t. I don’t because I wouldn’t be able to participate without staining something. My period is going strong and as much as I would love for her to stick her hand someplace it doesn’t belong on a hiking trail, I hate washing blood stains.</p>
<p>Also, aren’t you, like… supposed to wait a while before jumping into anything? Even if it’s casual? Society’s rules are weird. You’re supposed to wait a while, but <em>everyone </em>knows about rebound sex. I could certainly use a hit of dopamine right now.</p>
<p>Xion leads the hike, the minimal legs of her tiny shorts hiking up her thighs. Is she doing this on purpose? Is she taking big steps intentionally, shoving the crotch of her jeans up tight between her legs? Knowing her… who knows?</p>
<p>That’s <em>got</em> to be uncomfortable, though.</p>
<p>Maybe I stare too long — I shouldn’t even be staring, it’s rude — because Xion laughs and asks, “Thirsty?”</p>
<p>Shaking my head, I hoist my water bottle for her to see and say, “Nah, I’m good,” before I realize I’m a goddamn idiot.</p>
<p>Xion grins. “Do I need to explain?”</p>
<p>“No, I understand. Please let me stew in my awkwardness,” I request quietly.</p>
<p>“I mean, sure,” she snorts.</p>
<p>Thankfully we go back to our hike after that, and I keep my bullshit to a minimum. It’s when we take a break at the first field that Xion opens her mouth like a proper Chaotic Deity. “You look like shit and you’re slow as fuck. Are you tired or just hungover today? Things still rough?”</p>
<p>“Which of those do you want me to answer? ‘Cause I must say, opening with ‘you look like shit’ is a strong start. I didn’t know it was coming from a place of concern until the punchline.”</p>
<p>“So you feel as shitty as you look. Good to know.”</p>
<p>“Eat a dick.”</p>
<p>“That <em>is</em> my specialty.”</p>
<p>“<em>Wo-ow</em>,” I say as long and flat as I can manage without laughing.</p>
<p>We go quiet after that. The way we do when we have nothing to say to each other. It’s comfortable but disturbing how you can know someone so well that there’s no point in talking to them, but understand them so little that you aren’t sure what you can bring up. It’s the Almost Toast of uneasiness. It’s sour and cold on the tongue and sometimes it makes me want to scream.</p>
<p>I wish I knew her better but I wish I knew her worse.</p>
<p>I need more friends.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ve gotten to the point where I’m sleepwalking through work. I don’t remember most of the lessons, and I barely remember my breaks or if anyone asked me any questions. There were kids running around and parents collecting them. That’s all I got. That is until Belle points to an especially tiny body sitting against the front of the building just as I’m locking up. It’s the kid from before. Virgil? Vayne?</p>
<p>“Vivi,” Belle whispers as he seems to shrink in his oversized jacket. “Want me to stay this time?”</p>
<p>Yes. “I’m not paying you for this. Get going.”</p>
<p>She hesitates for just a moment before nodding and walking away. It’s strange; when I first hired her she would argue about just about anything she didn’t agree with. Maybe she trusts me? Or maybe I’m just making fewer shitty decisions. I’m not about to ask her.</p>
<p>Taking a seat a few feet from him, I cross my arms over my knees and take a breath. The sidewalk pricks me through my pants and the windows of the studio are shockingly cold against my back. Who is he waiting for again? They were a man, I think, and Vivi had called them… “Your grandpa late again?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Has he been doing that a lot?”</p>
<p>“If I say yes, you won’t call CPS, right?”</p>
<p>“A little forgetfulness is human. I’m not going to call CPS over a few minutes of tardiness,” I assure him softly. Will he even understand that? He’s… what? Eight? I can’t remember.</p>
<p>“Mr. Ratcliffe says I wear this jacket too much and I’m always late. The social worker lady said she liked it, though.” His arms draw up, hands grabbing at the lapels of the large denim jacket, thumbs stroking over the fabric. Is he stimming? “I like it. It’s jeans for your arms.”</p>
<p>Funny kid. “Sounds like Mr. Ratcliffe doesn’t know a good jean jacket when he sees it.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Ratcliffe is a wart booger,” Vivi says, voice low.</p>
<p>Oh? Insults? This I know how to handle. Reclining further against the glass, I arch an eyebrow and ask, “Oh? How bad of a wart booger are we talking here? Like, fresh and gooey? Or old and crusty?”</p>
<p>“Crusty,” he replies darkly. “Old and mean and he holds up all my tests for everyone to see and talks about everything I did wrong. He’s always saying I’m not paying attention and I’m a bad student and I’m not smart.” His hands slip into his armpits and he gives a huff that’s both huge and adorable. “He’s a big mean jerk.”</p>
<p>I want to joke about how mean this teacher is, but honestly this is kind of… horribly familiar. “My teachers used to do that. Hold up my tests and talk about them, I mean. I hated it.” It’s a mild word for a big feeling. Even now, more than fifteen years later. “Like, what do they even get out of that? Public shame never made me a better student. I didn’t try any harder — I couldn’t even if I wanted to. It just made me hate school.”</p>
<p>“You’re allowed to hate school?” He’s not looking straight at me — he’s looking out into the street, eyes big and knees jumping. His hands draw out of his armpits, falling onto his thighs…</p>
<p>I don’t know how I never noticed before. Chewed nails, avoiding eye contact, legs jumping, teachers shaming him in class for not paying attention… It’s like I’ve got Myde in my head, looking over at this kid and asking, “<em>Autism or ADHD?</em>”</p>
<p>Autism or ADHD indeed.</p>
<p>“Do you have any good teachers?” I ask instead of immediately answering. “Anyone who makes you excited to come to school? Maybe even the librarian?”</p>
<p>Vivi nods quickly, and that’s a relief.</p>
<p>“Mr. Ratcliffe isn’t the only person in your school. It would suck to hate somewhere you have to go every day. If he’s making you not want to go to school, then talk to the counsellor and tell them you don’t feel supported in his class and want to move. You can do this in every part of life, you know that? You can always ask for help.”</p>
<p>“But what if they do nothing? What if it’s not serious enough?”</p>
<p>Valid concerns. “That’s a good thing to ask,” I say, remembering for a moment something I had read once about talking to kids. Be specific, support their questions, and don’t make them feel like you’re not listening. “You’ll learn what’s important to you as you grow up. Sometimes adults or the other people around you won’t be able to tell how serious it is, even if you tell them. That’s why communication is so important. Do you get it?”</p>
<p>“Sort of.” He squints, one dark hand drawing up to poke between his eyebrows where they’re furrowed. “So like… I gotta show them I mean what I say?”</p>
<p>“Not show, unless it’s through evidence like tests someone has marked in a mean way, or a bruise from someone who grabbed or hit you in a way that’s different from class. It’s okay to have a few bruises from taking a fall the wrong way, but it’s not okay to just punch people.” God, I’m such a hypocrite. “When I talk about communication, I’m talking about what you say, how you say it, and who you say it to. You have to understand what position they’re in, and what power they have to respond. Like… if you tell me about someone hitting you at school, I can’t do anything, but if you tell a teacher who’s supposed to take care of you, they can probably do something.” I keep stepping to explain what I’m explaining. Am I confusing him? Is this too much? He’s <em>eight</em>.</p>
<p>He’s looking right at me, now, eyes big and mouth ajar. “That makes sense.”</p>
<p>Turning my eyes to the ground, I shift against the window until I’m sitting up properly. “Communication is hard, though. It’s always really… I don’t really like it.” Maybe I shouldn’t say that to a kid. “I mean… it’s hard. Everyone’s so different and they like different things, and some days it all seems so complicated like… like everyone got a book that I didn’t when they were born on how to talk and act.”</p>
<p>“Yeah!” Vivi says loudly. He’s on his knees now, looking up at me. “That! It’s like that!”</p>
<p>Glancing down at him, I give him a quick smile before looking back out at the street. “Truth is, there is no book. People are just… Our brains are all different. And sometimes we’ll meet people we understand better than others. You’re young, so you haven’t seen a lot of…” I pause. “It’s like Taekwondo.”</p>
<p>“People are?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. It takes a while to get a flip down, right? And you learn some moves faster than you do others. But even if you get a move just right doesn’t mean you’ll catch onto the others just as fast. Sometimes you end up with a fist in the face. So aren’t you glad to learn something like that in a setting where someone’s not trying to hurt you?” I look to him for a reaction.</p>
<p>“So it’s like how Eiko will fight back during practice when others don’t, and you have to stop her every time,” he says, voice soft. “People act different. You just gotta learn how to dodge.”</p>
<p>“Or block, and when.” Is this normal for an eight year old to pick up on? When I was in fourth grade, the teacher told us to “<em>read between the lines</em>” and I kept staring at the page looking for fine print between the paragraphs. “Sometimes dodging will hurt the other person, but it’s hard to know when that is at first. It’s just best to try your hardest to learn. Look at what you did, what they did, and what happened. Sometimes that’s all you can do. That’s why experience is so important.”</p>
<p>A car rolls up to the curb as I finish saying this, and Vivi pushes off the window and onto his feet. His fingers play with the hem of his jacket as he looks down at me. “Thanks, Master Toyoguchi,” he says, and there’s so much <em>warmth</em>.</p>
<p>“Anytime,” I say, and I kind of mean it.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>When I get home, Mom is using a cane. It’s bright pink and matches her fuzzy slippers.</p>
<p>Everything feels so much more real.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>The Next Day, Monday August 30th</strong>
</p>
<p>After work, I head over to Terra’s place to find a large dinner and piles of laundry waiting. The entire house smells like chicken.</p>
<p>“Cool. Can we eat?” is Ventus’ only comment when I arrive, hugging me around the shoulders with one arm. As soon as we sit at the dining room table he goes straight for the chicken, slicing off a wing and a thigh for himself as he says, “I’m going to miss your cooking so much when I’m down south. You know that, right? You make it so hard to go back to work.”</p>
<p>Terra laughs at this, head lolling back against the chair. “Yes, seeing as you’ve told me that, like, ten times in the last four hours. I am very aware.”</p>
<p>“You should be a personal chef.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not.”</p>
<p>I’m going to miss Ven while he’s gone.</p>
<p>Settling back into his chair, Ventus adds a spoonful of peas and carrots to his place, then reaches for the mashed sweet potatoes. “You better send me more emails this time, Terra. I will absolutely guilt you about that. Don’t think I won’t.”</p>
<p>Terra throws his hands up mockingly, saying, “Okay, okay.”</p>
<p>“How many did he send you this last time?” I ask, curious. I glance between them, enjoying the clash of Ven’s teeth bared in a wide grin with Terra’s mouth crushed into a thin line.</p>
<p>Ventus looks Terra dead in the eye and says with a tone so intentionally teasing that even I pick up on it, “Two.”</p>
<p>“Two?” I ask, attention shooting to where Terra runs a hand through where his bangs fall into his eyes. “Terra, what the fuck?”</p>
<p>“It was a busy season with the hives,” is his swift defense.</p>
<p>“Two emails in five months,” I repeat again for good measure. Then, turning back to Ventus, I say, “I’ll include his news when I update you on stuff.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>Terra throws his hands up again — probably exasperation — before reaching for the mashed sweet potatoes.</p>
<p>“So what’s the game plan for today?” I ask, turning to Ventus.</p>
<p>Swallowing a mouthful, he clears his throat. “Well, first we have to pack my suitcase, weigh it, weigh <em>me</em>, pick up my prescriptions from the pharmacy, downsize <em>those</em> as much as we can, and then figure out which movies, comics, and TV series we’re putting on that flash drive.”</p>
<p>“Do I get to have any input on that second flash drive this time?” I ask dryly.</p>
<p>“The porn drive? Terra and I already filled that up.”</p>
<p>Filled it up? “It’s two terabytes,” I point out.</p>
<p>“Yes. And?”</p>
<p>“Were you guys just doing that every moment I wasn’t here?” Maybe my voice should go up at the end. Maybe it should be teasing. But if this is what they did, I’m going to start questioning some things.</p>
<p>Ventus laughs at this. “Nah. Terra’s just been building a catalogue for me over the last few months.”</p>
<p>Terra has? “Is it all gay porn or something?”</p>
<p>“No, he included some other stuff that would be more my speed.”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately,” Terra puts in, voice low.</p>
<p>“Most of this month was spent hanging out. Played a little mini-golf, marathoned all of ATLA — which Terra slept through most of-”</p>
<p>“You can’t expect Terra to sit still that long,” I defend just as Terra says, “I don’t get how you guys can watch so much at once.”</p>
<p>“I want so badly to make a neurotypical joke right now, but as the only neurotypical in the room I don’t think I should make it.”</p>
<p>“The sentiment is appreciated. Consider the joke greenlit,” I put in around my bite of sweet potatoes. Shit, Terra really outdid himself with these.</p>
<p>“Okay.” Turning to Terra, Ventus says firmly, “Neurotypical.”</p>
<p>Terra’s left hand slaps to his chest and he makes a mock wounded sound.</p>
<p>“Can we eat now? Please pass the peas, Ven,” I request politely.</p>
<p>As Ventus passes the bowl he comments, “You have no issues marathoning porn. I saw those playlists, man; you can’t lie to me.”</p>
<p>“That’s different,” he says.</p>
<p>“Why? Because it’s an interactive activity? Horny bastard.”</p>
<p>“16,500 condoms,” Terra fires back.</p>
<p>“Yeah, man. What else are we going to do in Antarctica? Sunbathing?”</p>
<p>Fair point.</p>
<p>“Suck a dick, Ven,” Terra bites back, tone light.</p>
<p>Ventus laughs. “You know you want to.”</p>
<p>“Please tell me you guys didn’t sleep together,” I say firmly, glancing nervously between them.</p>
<p>A pale hand waves me off. “Nah. I’ve only slept with one person in our friend group and that’s not Terra.”</p>
<p>“Who did you sleep with?” I find myself asking.</p>
<p>Ventus laughs. “Xion, remember? We’ve talked about this… right?”</p>
<p>“I think you talked about it with me,” Terra puts in helpfully.</p>
<p>God, these peas really are well seasoned.</p>
<p>Ventus blows a raspberry. “She sure knew what she was doing, though. It’s hard to really hit that bar after living so long down south, but holy fuck. Literally.”</p>
<p>Another snort from Terra. “Well yeah. Who do you think got there first? She learned from the best.”</p>
<p>He’s starting to sound like Lea.</p>
<p>“Oh come on, Terra. It’s all her. She didn’t exactly use the same equipment on me as she did with you. She doesn’t have a <em>dick</em> anymore,” Ventus adds warmly. “Are you claiming you taught her how to use a <em>vagina</em>?”</p>
<p>No, that was me.</p>
<p>“Holy shit.”</p>
<p>“Jesus <em>fuck</em>, Aqua. Are you serious?”</p>
<p>Wait.</p>
<p>Looking up from my plate, I glance between the men staring pointedly at me. “Did I say that out loud?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Did you sleep with Xion?” Ventus shoots back, mouth slack and hands still against the table.</p>
<p>“Is it any of your business?” I snap back, voice unsteady.</p>
<p>“Aqua, I know you don’t kiss and tell, but if we’ve all been with the same woman, that’s a different level of friendship and we need to acknowledge it,” Terra says.</p>
<p>I look him dead in the eye and say, “That’s creepy as shit and I hope you know that.”</p>
<p>His hands come up again — <em>don’t shoot</em> — and he reaches once more for the mashed sweet potatoes. “Makes sense. You can’t ever take your eyes off her.”</p>
<p>“She’s straight,” I point out. It comes out sharper than I intend.</p>
<p>A silence settles in. Eventually someone says something about the potatoes, and after that the subject changes properly. No more talk about sex. About Xion. It shifts instead to packing logistics and airport plans. We’d be getting up early together to head out, so this would be our last proper night together until Ventus comes back.</p>
<p>We copy over a number of movies and books onto the USB drive after moving to the office. Movies and TV shows and so many books on different topics that it makes me dizzy. After everything is finalized and a selection of his clothes are packed tightly in his suitcase, we head into the backyard to pass around a football, lit only by the moon and the neighbor’s blinding back porch light.</p>
<p>When ten rolls around we head inside. Terra sets candles around the living room and we light them as he makes tea. We sit on pillows together as Terra brings out his acoustic guitar and takes requests, and I’m reminded not for the first time how great he is at… <em>everything</em>. It’s ridiculous, really, how good he is at everything he puts his mind to.</p>
<p>How could anyone ever want him gone?</p>
<p>It’s a cold fear. A constant one. How many people want him dead just for being who he is? For being gay? For being Trabian? For having an anger disorder? For existing as a human being in this twisted world of ours?</p>
<p>I think about Paine a bit. About their anger. Their fear. Their apparent issues that might have tied unwittingly into Terra’s existence, tripping them up in their eagerness to be bold in a world that wants them dead as much Terra, if not more.</p>
<p>Everything is unfair.</p>
<p>I’m sad. A little sick, too. And I’m <em>tired</em>.</p>
<p>I don’t think I’m going to be okay for a while.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Questions about the narrative are encouraged. I will try to refrain from spoiling the story if you hit something juicy. If you use a review to tell me about a typo I will love you forever and also fix the typo.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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